1085 


I 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


WORDS   OF   THE   WOOD 


WORDS 


OF  THE 

WOOD 


Kalcy  Busted  Bell 


m"  m  in  iinutt  nil  "•  Y^l 

I  ^ [Francis  Jonts^j 


OTHER  BOOKS   BY   DR.   BELL 

THE  WORTH  OF  WORDS 

Hinds   £3"   Noble,  1904 

SONGS  OF  THE  SHAWANGUNKS 

(Out  of  Print) 

AALA  DEENE  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

(Out  of  Print) 


WORDS 
OF  THE  WOOD 

By 
RALCY  HUSTED  BELL 


Boston 

Small,  Maynard   &  Company 
1906 


Copyright,  1905,  by 

Ralcy  Husted  Bell 


Published,  December,  1905 


Press  of 

George  H.  Ellis  Company 
Boston,  U.S. 4. 


PS 


DEDICATION 

TO 

FREDERIC   HENRY   GERRISH,  A.M.,  M.D.,  LL.D.5 
PORTLAND,  MAINE. 

MY  DEAR  DOCTOR: 

An  appropriate  dedication  is  a  difficult  thing  to  write.  It  should  be  done 
under  the  most  favorable  conditions.  Even  then  the  result  is  not  always 
felicitous.  Now  that  the  time  has  come  for  me  to  avail  myself  of  this 
privilege,  I  am  glad  that  you  are  travelling  abroad,  because  your 
absence  allows  me  greater  freedom,  as  it  were,  than  your  characteristic  re 
serve  would  permit  if  you  were  here. 

I  am  thankful  for  this  opportunity  to  do  homage  to  your  broad  culture 
in  my  own  way,  and  to  signify  my  appreciation  of  the  special  attainments 
of  your  eminent  scholarship.  Certainly,  you  are  not  unaware  of  my  ad 
miration  for  you  as  a  successful  Teacher,  a  great  Surgeon,  a  learned  Anato 
mist.  I  wish  you  to  know,  as  well,  of  my  high  regard  for  your  splendid 
character  as  a  man,  and  especially  of  my  profound  esteem  for  you  as 
a  loyal  friend. 

A  dedication  ought  to  mean  something;  and  this  one  does.  It  is  sym 
bolic  of  a  long  and  beautiful  friendship  which  began  during  my  college 
days  in  our  relations  as  Professor  and  Student, — a  friendship  which  time 
has  strengthened,  which  unselfishness  has  sweetened,  and  which  only  death 
can  end. 

Compared  with  what  I  might  say,  very  justly,  I  feel  that  I  am  conserva 
tive  in  my  expression  of  your  worth.  On  the  other  hand,  I  am  conscious 
of  saying  much  more  than  your  modesty  will  approve.  I  rely  on  my  sin 
cerity  to  shield  me  from  your  frown.  Good  intention  does  much  to  smooth 
the  way  in  this  world,  even  as  it  is  alleged  to  pave  regions  nethermost  in 
the  next. 

Trusting  that  it  may  never  be  the  lot  of  either  of  us  to  test  the  accuracy 
of  the  allegation,  I  remain 

Your  sometime  student  and 
friend  always, 

R.  H.  BELL. 

New  York,  Sept.  5,  1905. 


904068 


CONTENTS 

PACK 

Words  of  the  Wood I 

In  a  Deserted  Garden 2 

In  the  Wildwood  of  the  World      ....       3 

The  Land  of  Fern 4 

Dawn 5 

Dreamland  Voices 6 

Wild  Flowers 7 

A  June  Song 8 

Benevolentia 9 

The  Maligned  World 15 

May  Twenty-seventh 17 

Stay  thy  Hand   .        .        .        .        .        .        .  19 

America       .-  •     . 20 

A  Sketch     .        . 25 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman     .        .        .        .        .26 

Lines    .        .        . 27 

To  a  Friend        ...        .        .        .        .        -27 

Herbert  Spencer        ...        .        .        .        .     28 

The  Light-house        .        .        .        .        .        .        -29 

John  James  Ingalls   .        .        .        .        .—    .        .     31 

The  Pale  Horse         ...        .        .        .        .31 

To  a  Dead  Man 33 

Marooned   .        ...        .        .        .        .        -34 

Robert  G.  Ingersoll  ...        .        .        .        -35 

Walt  Whitman   .        . 36 


PAGE 

Beauty's  Slave 38 

Birthday  Blossoms 39 

A  Song  of  the  Sun  and  Dew 40 

My  Helen's  Eyes 41 

Song  of  a  Starling 42 

Kisses 44 

Late  Summer     .        .        .        .        .        .        .        -45 

A  Handful  of  Clover 45 

Even  So -46 

A  Love-queen 47 

One  Clinging  Hour 48 

Kathleen 49 

Requital       .                49 

A  Rose  Song 50 

Night  in  the  Park 51 

Violets 52 

A  Smile  of  Autumn 52 

Love's  Star 53 

A  Man's  Marvel 54 

Sixteen 55 

Fate 56 

A  Ballad  of  Change -57 

Doubt 61 

God 62 

Life 62 

Alone 62 

The  Spirit  of  Democracy 63 

The  Middle  Ages 64 

War 65 


PAGE 

A  Cry  of  the  Soul 66 

The  Absolute 69 

False  Fame 69 

On  Sliding  Ground   .        .        .        .        .        .        -7° 

My  Soul  Awakes 71 

The  West  Wind 72 

The  Soul's  Harkback 72 

A  Vision  of  Life 74 

The  Negro 75 

United 76 

Dreams 77 

Yesterday 78 

Dead  Sea-fruit            78 

De  Po'  LiT  Chil'un 81 

Leavin'  Georgy 82 

Goin'  Back  to  Georgy 84 

The  Cross 85 

When  Day  Droops 86 

The  Truly  Free 86 

Love's  Largess 87 


WORDS  OF  THE  WOOD 

I  know  a  wild-born  instinct  of  the  wood 

Where  tangled  vine  and  woven  branches  are, 

Where  fern  and  flower  beneath  the  feet  are  good, 
And  sheltering  leaves  sift  light  of  moon  and  star. 

I  know  the  longing  love  for  druid  trees 

Where  shadows  droop  when  all  the  boughs  are  still, 
And  all  the  gloomy  ways  where  Fancy  sees 

Her  bathing  Fauns  in  every  pool  and  rill. 

Within  my  soul  the  woodland  voices  rise, 
Like  echoes  down  the  years  from  long  ago, 

Until  my  heart  is  full  of  forest  cries 

Of  every  note  from  mirth  to  savage  woe. 

My  wistful  gaze  is  set  on  some  far  glade, 
Deserted  long  by  time  and  vanished  tree, 

Where  I  may  dream  at  noontide  in  the  shade, 
And  hear  no  sound  save  wing  of  droning  bee. 

My  love  undaunted  is  as  forest  life, 

And  longs  to  wed  as  once  the  Satyrs  did: 

Woo  fleeing  Nymphs  on  fleeter  foot  'mid  strife, 
And  pause  to  pluck  fierce  pleasure,  leafy  hid. 

Ere  man  conspired  with  time  to  mar  the  world, 
The  mystic  woods  were  fain  to  nurture  me; 

In  that  dim  age  my  joyous  soul  is  furled, 
And  slumbers  yet  wherever  grows  a  tree. 

1 


IN  A  DESERTED  GARDEN 

In  this  hard  age  of  steel  and  stress, 
'Tis  good  to  sit  in  some  old  garden  spot 

Beside  a  quiet  lane, 
Where  modest  plants  in  breeze  caress 
Each  other's  leaves  when  days  are  long  and  hot, 
And  blossoms  dream  of  rain. 


'Twere  well  to  watch  the  little  things, 
That  live  their  lives  far  from  the  world  apart 

And  know  riot  of  its  ways. 
'Tis  good  to  feel  the  thought  that  springs 
From  out  the  leaning  lily's  stainless  heart 
On  peaceful  summer  days. 

The  lichened  stones  have  tales  to  tell; 
The  garden  wall  knows  many  legends,  too, 

Of  hearts  now  silent  dust. 
The  grass-grown  path  that  finds  the  well 
Is  still  writ  o'er  with  stories  strangely  true 
Of  love  and  faith  and  trust. 

The  moss-rose  bush  neglected  seems, 
As  though  it  held  some  bursting  heart  too  full 

Of  memory  to  speak. 
The  comely  rambler  droops  and  dreams 
Where  crumbling  arbor-cords  no  longer  pull 
Up  tendrils  that  are  weak. 


Once-trodden  spots  where  children's  feet 
Knew  all  the  thrills  of  summer's  touch  of  earth 

Are  grassy  now  and  green. 
The  boughs  where  lovers'  lips  did  meet — 
Where  heavenly  passion  had  its  human  birth — 
Are  dark  with  death  between. 

The  tea-plant  and  the  tamarack, 
The  hollyhocks  and  timid  violets, 

Half-hopeless  seem  to  wait 
For  friends,  ere  ruthless  Time's  attack 
Had  left  them  there  where  sleeping  love  forgets 
To  pass  the  garden  gate. 

But  still  the  birds  nest  in  the  briar; 
And  still  the  rose's  heart  bursts  sweetly  red 

Where  greenest  ferns  grow  tall. 
Good  Peace,  at  least,  a  lonesome  friar, 
Says  dewy  beads  for  both  bereft  and  dead — 
And  stars  shine  over  all. 


IN  THE  WILDWOOD  OF  THE  WORLD 

Often  waking  from  the  vaguest  depths  of  night, 

I  have  felt  her  measured  breath  upon  my  cheek; 
Often  walking  in  the  woodland's  checkered  light, 
My  soul  was  thrilled  with  music  as  I  heard  her  speak 
Of  the  little  mosses  dreaming  all  alone 
In  their  humble  nooks,  or  crannies  of  a  stone; 


Of  the  leaning  little  flowers 

That  were  wooing  in  the  bowers 
Of  the  tangled  wildwood  of  the  world, — 
In  the  blessed  wildwood  of  the  world. 

So  through  many  a  night  of  slumber  her  sweet  breath, 

Like  a  mystic  cadence  kissed  of  quiet  rest, 
Lulls  my  soul  to  sleeping,  to  my  spirit  saith, 

Peace  and  love  are  fairest  in  the  humble  breast, — 
Like  the  gentle  mosses  dreaming  all  alone 
In  their  timid  nooks,  or  crannies  of  a  stone; 
Like  the  leaning  little  flowers 
That  are  loving  in  the  bowers 
Of  the  tangled  wildwood  of  the  world, — 
In  the  sleepy  wildwood  of  the  world. 

THE  LAND  OF  FERN 

I  know  a  land  where  simple  beauty  dwells 

In  all  the  blest  perfection  of  its  power, 
Where  viewless  sculptors  carve  the  bud  that  swells 

Each  springtime  into  song  of  leaf  and  flower. 

I  know  a  land  where  fruitful  waters  flow 
Adown  the  rocks  to  kiss  the  feet  of  hills, 

Where  beds  of  moss  hold  dreaming  things  that^know 
The  secret  plan  of  ferns,  and  birth  of  rills. 

I  know  where  stones  have  lips  of  velvet,  soft 
As  lovers'  lips  that  part  and  speak  and  press; 


I  know  where  silent  prayer  is  raised  aloft 

From  rootlets  to  the  boughs  that  winds  caress. 

I  lose  myself  in  shadow  where  the  trees 

Expand  their  leaves  to  light  of  sun  and  star; 

I  barter  self  where  kiss  of  fluent  breeze 

Is  fraught  with  fragrance  whence  the  balsams  are. 

I  lean  beneath  the  birch  in  reverent  thought, 
I  kneel  beneath  the  oak  in  thankful  prayer, 

And  feel  a  spell  the  sacred  wood  has  wrought 
On  living  things  that  love  it  everywhere. 

I  spend  long  hours  of  rapture  with  the  fern, 
Amazed  to  think  its  primal  image  wrought 

One  changeless  plan  through  countless  forms  that  turn 
Not  from  the  Artist's  proof  of  living  thought. 

I  know  the  secrets  of  the  mystic  wood 

Where  light-kissed  gloom  releases  fair  design; 

I  feel  the  touch  of  silence  that  is  good, 

And  find  that  peace  of  heaven  which  is  mine. 


DAWN 

Now  the  trees  awake  in  murmurs  to  the  winds  that 

softly  blow, 
Hail  some  vague  and  hidden  fancy,  that  their  pulses 

dimly  know. 


All  the  smiling  grasses  bending,  under  splendid  jewels 

seem 
Half-way  conscious  of  a  dawning,  as  if  waking  from  a 

dream. 

Woodland  flowers  turn  their  faces  faintly  from  the 

scowling  West, 
As  if  seeking  smiles  and  kisses,  just  as  children  do 

at  rest. 

And  the  shaded  mosses  tell  me  they,  too,  dream  of 
coming  day, 

Though  their  timid  hearts  more  slowly  thrill  to  dawn- 
ing's  paler  ray. 

Happy  ferns  of  countless  tracings,  standing  by  the 
marshes'  edge, 

I  am  certain  hail  the  promise  of  the  golden  day- 
god's  pledge. 

All  the  meadow's  swaying  censers,  all  the  highland 

vines  that  cling, 
Somehow  sing  the  spell  of  morning  sweeter  than  all 

poets  sing. 


DREAMLAND  VOICES 

Now  sings  the  mated  bird, 
Scarce  knowing  why  he  utters  golden  mirth. 

The  thrilling  leaves  are  stirred 
With  melodies  of  bird  and  sky  and  earth. 


From  far-off  fields  of  sleep 
I  hear  the  drowsy  phantom  voices  rise. 

There  are  no  winds  to  sweep 
The  misty  murmur-echoes  from  the  skies. 

Serene  soft  stars  eclipse 
Their  full-eyed  gaze  with  lids  of  love  half  closed; 

The  great  world  gently  dips 
Beneath  a  sea  of  azure,  opal-rosed. 

The  half-wake  grasses  droop 
Where  pools  of  moonlight  lie  between  the  trees; 

And  tall  night-shadows  stoop 
Like  timid  silence  shrinking  from  the  breeze. 


WILD  FLOWERS 

Beyond  the  daily  paths  of  men,  afar 

From  rutted  ways  and  dusty  barren  streets, 

I  know  where  children  of  the  wildwood  are, 
Whose  fragrant  souls  the  dewy  morning  greets. 

These  modest  dreamers,  long  ago,  have  won 
My  spirit  back  to  simpler  days  when  flowers 

And  love  were  one,  when  woodland  poets  spun 
Their  tinted  lays  of  sweetness  from  the  showers. 

I  live  again  with  these  in  forests  wild, 

Where  loam  is  dark,  and  mosses  green  are  laid 

Beneath  the  feet;  where  all  the  air  is  mild, 
And  gladness  dwells  in  every  nook  and  glade. 

7 


I  wander  there  in  freedom  fair  and  sweet, 
Content  to  give  my  soul  to  them  and  take 

Their  dreaming  odors  fresh  from  colors  fleet, 
And  hold  them  in  my  heart  for  beauty's  sake. 

Ah,  happy  children  of  the  happy  wood ! 

'Tis  blest  to  know  you  now  while  love  is  wed 
To  life;  and  yet  for  widowed  love  'tis  good 

To  feel  your  presence  still  when  life  has  fled. 


A   JUNE   SONG 

I  loaf  away  long  summer  days 

Where  wild  hares  have  their  burrows; 

I  dream  all  day  where  the  woodchuck  stays 
'Mid  clover  fields  and  furrows. 

I  love  the  bees  in  the  linden-tree 

When  the  linden  leaves  are  sunny, — 

The  grass  to  my  knees  like  an  emerald  sea, 
And  the  bees  all  making  their  honey. 

I  like  to  swim  where  the  silverbugs  skim 
The  pools  of  the  creek  a-creeping 

Up  close  to  the  brim  of  the  fields  where  slim 
Old  poplars  lean  a-sleeping. 

I  tarry  long  where  the  skylark's  song 
Rises  up  from  the  fields  like  a  spirit, 

Swift  as  the  song  of  an  arrow  strong, 
And  fades  away  as  I  hear  it. 


I  haunt  the  spring  where  the  wild  birds  sing 

To  dewy  blossoms  of  glory, 
Where  harebells  swing  and  mosses  cling 

To  branches  gnarled  and  hoary. 

And  I  loaf  and  lie  where  grasses  high 

Are  sweetly  cool  and  shady, 
Where  earth  and  sky  conceive  and  die 

In  the  arms  of  me  and  my  lady. 

BENEVOLENTIA 

I  have  robbed  my  garden  of  roses  red 
And  lilies  white  for  the  graves  of  the  dead. 

I  have  plucked  from  my  lips  their  sweetest  smile, 
And  bestowed  it  where  everything  else  was  vile. 

I  have  treasured  my  noblest  words  to  give 
Where  serpents  of  thankless  hatred  live. 

I  have  grown  most  glorious  grapes,  and  made 
A  nectared  vintage  to  drunken  a  jade. 

I  have  burdened  my  heart  and  lightened  my  purse 
In  barter  for  bruises  bestowed  with  a  curse. 

I  have  patiently  woven  my  dream-wefts  rare 
To  brighten  the  walls  of  my  lady  fair; 

And  my  choicest  woofs  were  torn  in  strips 

By  the  words  with  claws  which  leapt  from  her  lips. 


I  have  strewn  at  the  feet  of  the  great  and  wise 
My  dearest  possessions  beneath  the  skies; 

And  they  trampled  them  down,  and  never  gave  heed 
To  the  ruin  they  wrought  by  the  callous  deed. 

I  have  given  with  never  a  thought  of  return 
Fair  gifts,  which  were  taken  with  cool  unconcern. 

I  have  shown  sweet  mercy  to  mean  things  with  life, 
And  spared  most  contemptible  creatures  in  strife; 

But  they  answered  my  mercy  with  venomous  stings, 
In  perfect  accord  with  the  mean  human  things. 

I  have  spared  my  foe,  when  the  battle  was  mine, 
Who  had  sought  my  blood  with  malicious  design; 

I  have  spared  him  the  thrust  of  a  mortal  fight, 

To  be  struck  from  the  back  in  an  ambush  of  night. 

I  have  answered  with  softness  the  hisses  of  rage; 
And  impudent  questions  of  fools,  as  a  sage. 

Without  profit  my  answers!  no  surcease  from  pests 
In  a  universe  managed  by  savage  behests! 

I  have  read  the  books  of  the  wonderful  men 
Wherein  feeling  was  slain  for  the  love  of  ken. 

Again  I  have  seen  where  feeling  was  crazed 
In  the  books  of  men  with  intellects  dazed. 

10 


I  sorrowed  and  felt  quite  equally  sad 

At  feeling  run  riot  as  knowledge  gone  mad. 

I  have  builded  my  hopes  of  blood  and  sweat, 
And  labored  from  dawn  till  the  sun  had  set; 

From  dew-wet  eve  till  the  stars  went  out 
At  dawn  again  with  never  a  doubt. 

But  my  labors  were  vain  as  the  vainest  call 
That  ever  the  human  lips  let  fall; 

And  my  hopes  all  died  as  each  thing  dies 

Till  my  Soul  grew  weary,  and  dim  were  my  eyes. 

My  Soul  crawled  away — as  a  hurt  thing  crept 
To  the  hollow  of  night — and  my  spirit  wept. 

Alone  I  wept  through  the  mortal  years, 
Little  knowing  the  fount  of  my  falling  tears. 

I  thought  I  was  weeping  o'er  graves  of  the  dead 
'Mid  lilies  white  and  roses  red. 

I  dreamed  I  was  mourning  my  sweetest  smile, 
Which  was  wasted  where  everything  else  was  vile. 

I  grieved  for  the  noblest  words  which  I  said, 
Where  the  serpents  of  hatred  flourished  instead. 

I  believed  that  my  glorious  grapes  that  made 
A  nectared  vintage  were  lost  on  a  jade; 


That  my  largess  of  heart  and  gifts  of  purse 
Were  bartered  alone  for  a  bruise  and  a  curse; 

That  the  wefts  of  my  Soul,  with  its  tapestries  rare, 
Were  lost  on  the  wretch  who  seemed  so  fair; 

That  the  great  and  wise  by  a  callous  deed 
Had  wantonly  made  my  heart  to  bleed; 

That  my  gifts  were  taken  only  to  spurn 
The  spirit  of  giving  that  craved  not  return; 

That  the  mercy  I  showed  to  the  weak  and  mean 
Was  the  weed  that  was  left  where  the  sickle  had  been, 

And  the  foe  I  had  spared  from  sword  and  lance 
Was  spared  by  my  folly  or  favored  by  chance; 

That  the  legend  of  answers  which  turn  away  wrath 
Was  invented  by  Satan  to  trouble  my  path; 

And  that  books  of  men  were  a  fatuous  waste 
Of  clean  white  paper  and  boards  and  paste; 

That  my  hopes  were  crushed, — by  a  demon  done 
To  their  death  in  a  cruel  burst  of  fun; 

That  the  world  was  a  sham  'mid  pitfall  and  fell, 
And  that  life  was  mere  savagery,  heartless  as  hell. 

But  at  last  I  awoke,  and  knew  that  my  tears 
Were  not  for  these  through  the  mortal  years. 

12 


For  my  Soul  I  had  wept, — my  Soul  that  had  fled 
And  for  many  a  mortal  year  lain  dead. 

I  opened  my  heart  where  the  hinges  grate 
(For  the  rust  was  deep  on  the  unused  gate). 

I  opened  my  heart  where  the  flood-gates  are, 
To  let  in  the  light  of  sun  and  star. 

I  opened  my  heart  with  a  fervent  prayer 
To  the  spirits  of  light  and  the  voices  of  air, 

To  the  smiling  nymphs  of  a  new-born  day; 

And  they  brought  back  my  Soul  from  the  far-away. 

It  came  from  the  far-famed  Kingdom  of  Love, 
New-risen,  song-laden  of  stars  from  above. 

And  I  saw  my  white  lilies  and  roses  red 
Entwining  the  brow  of  my  loved  and  dead. 

I  saw  that  of  which  all  else  had  been  vile 

The  foul  was  made  chaste  by  my  sweetest  smile; 

That  my  noblest  words  to  hatred  and  spite 

Had  changed  their  serpents  to  flambeaux  of  light; 

That  the  jade  who  was  drunk  on  my  nectared  wine 
When  human  was  now  a  woman  divine; 

That  my  largess  of  purse  was  a  debt  I  had  paid, 
And  my  gifts  of  heart  came  back  as  I  prayed; 

13 


That  the  wefts  I  had  woven  of  patience  and  trust 
Were  scantily  ample  as  shrouds  for  my  lust, 

And  the  treasures  I'd  cast  at  the  feet  of  the  wise 
Were  never  beheld  by  their  wistful  eyes; 

That  mercy  was  justice  deferred  too  long, 
And    meanness    was    weakness    ere   weakness    grew 
strong; 

That  the  foe  I  had  spared  was  a  friend  in  disguise, 
Who  struck  without  light  in  his  darkened  eyes; 

That  answers  of  kindness  to  hisses  of  wrath 
Are  the  blossoms  of  glory  that  border  my  path; 

That  the  book  was  as  great  as  the  soul  of  the  writer, 
And  the  thought  more  strong  than  the  arm  of  the 
fighter; 

That  dreams  are  as  real  as  the  action  or  deed, 
And  faith  more  holy  than  preachment  or  creed. 

Thus  feeling  and  knowledge  were  squared  by  the  rule 
That  came  not  from  men  and  is  taught  not  in  school. 

And  the  hopes  I  had  buried  with  sighs  and  tears 
Were  the  frailest  desires  of  the  mortalest  years. 

And  this  I  have  learned,  as  all  men  must 
Some  time  'twixt  birth  and  crumbling  dust: 

14 


That  whoso  does  his  best  e'er  saith 
The  noblest  prayer  this  side  of  death; 

That  he  who  has  somewhat  and  somewhat  gives 
Holds  that  in  trust  whereby  he  lives; 

That  evil  for  good  is  a  fiction  of  night, — 

For  all  things  are  good  by  their  ultimate  right; 

That  he  sins  who  sorrows  for  personal  pain, 

Since  the  wounds  he  receives  are  his  measure  of  gain; 

And  the  culprit  who  slays  is  the  victim  he  slew, — 
For  this  my  enlightened  Soul  told  me  was  true. 

THE   MALIGNED  WORLD 

How  good  the  world  is  never  has  been  told. 

The  fashion  is  to  rail  against  its  sin, 

Decry  its  evil  ways,  augment  its  din 
With  platitudes  on  "useless  hoarded  gold"; 
But  I  am  with  those  cheerful  souls  who  hold 

That  good  is  everywhere,  that  love  has  been 

The  savior  of  our  race,  our  souls'  trust  in 
All  noble  deeds  'twixt  star  and  earthly  mould. 
I  see  in  country  spots  ten  thousand  sweets 

Which  bloom  perennially  the  glad  year  round; 
I  see  them  throng  the  crowded  city  streets; 

I  hear  the  swelling  paeans  rise  and  sound 
In  rhythmic  cadence  of  the  heart  that  beats 

With  good  in  everything  above  the  ground. 


15 


How  glad  the  world  is  never  has  been  said. 

So  prone  are  we  to  sing  of  grief  and  tears 

We  scarcely  note  the  passing,  playful  years, 
But  dwell  within  their  graveyards  where  the  dead 
Unhallowed  hopes  of  yesterday  are  wed 

To  solemn  phantoms  born  of  dread  and  fears, — 

While  ancient  memories  are  all  one  hears, 
As  though  time's  flight  had  ceased,  and  joy  were  fled. 
But  we  who  walk  with  hope  on  either  hand, 

And  clasp  with  kisses  close  all  joys  between, 
Behold  a  smiling,  flowery,  fairy  land, 

Where  gladsome  spirits  dance  'mid  leaves  of  green, — 
See  joy  in  everything  and  understand 

The  saving  grace  of  humor's  happy  mien. 

How  true  the  world  is  never1  has  been  sung. 

We  celebrate  its  hoary  lies  too  well: 

Preach  rambling  doctrines  red  with  flames  of  hell, 
And  mystic  nightmares  old  when  earth  was  young; 
Ignore  the  truth  to  which  our  souls  have  clung 

With  patience  greater  than  a  god  could  tell, 

And  sweet  as  all  the  passing  years  could  swell 
From  fair  cathedral  chimes  by  angels  rung. 
I  know  how  deep  truth  lies  in  humankind; 

How  goodness  grows  on  every  spot  of  earth; 
How  gladness  sows  its  seeds  in  every  mind, 

Brings  forth  its  flower  and  fruit  in  endless  birth; 
How  all  the  cordial  virtues  unconfined 

May  dwell  in  every  heart,  on  every  hearth. 


16 


MAY  TWENTY-SEVENTH 

(i905) 

Lord  God  of  Nations,  Judge  of  valiant  deeds! 

Spirit  felt, — half-seen  along  the  sky, — 
Spirit  or  Shade  or  Fate!  the  world's  heart  bleeds 

For  strong  men  drowned,  for  men  who  groan  and  die. 

Yet  mute  we  stand  beside  the  eastern  straits, — 
Deep  admiration  burns  the  soul  like  flax, — 

We  see  no  widow  far  away  who  waits, 

Nor  feel  the  woe  that  melts  her  heart  like  wax. 

We  only  hear  great  Togo's  sea-dogs  bay, — 

Firm-fixed  as  rock,  we  watch  his  fierce  ships  turn 

Their  deep-mouthed  guns  on  ships  like  potter's  clay 
Which  break  and  sink,  or  limp  o'er  waves  and  burn. 

We  see  the  Silent  Admiral,  calm  and  still, 

Where  mighty  engines  belch  their  flame  and  shell, 

So  like  a  god,  since  all  obey  his  will, — 

Both  men  and  iron  ships  'mid  flames  of  hell. 

We  see  our  tawny  Sister,  Nippon,  sweep 

The  eastern  seas  stark  clean  of  Russian  boasts, — 

If  we  have  any  woman's  tears  to  weep, 
Be  they  the  tears  of  joy  at  scattered  hosts! 

Be  they  the  tears  that  leave  the  eyelids  free 
For  clearer  vision  of  the  deeds  that  won 

Unbroken  victory  on  land  and  sea 

Beneath  the  hallowed  flag  of  the  round  red  sun! 

17 


Be  they  the  tribute  tears  for  Nippon's  dead, 
The  holy  dead  who  gave  their  lives  for  Him 

Who  is  of  Nippon,  heart  and  soul  and  head: 
Colossal  Spirit  of  her  ages  dim! 

Be  they  the  tears  that  flow  for  wounded  right, 
Long  patient  with  the  savage,  snarling  beast 

That  knows  no  higher  law  than  brutal  might 
Of  fang  and  claw  which  threatened  all  the  East! 

Be  they  the  joyous  tears  that  wet  the  breast 
Of  homing  heroes  laurelled  from  the  strife, — 

Sweet  tears  of  this  great  Sister  in  the  West, 
All  jubilant  at  Nippon's  larger  life! 

And  yet,  O  God  of  Nations,  Judge  of  deeds! 

While  mumbling  oaflets  count  their  endless  beads, 
Poor  peasant  Russia,  ox-like,  dumbly  bleeds, 

Oppressed  by  sottish  power  and  sterile  creeds. 

O  Thou  who  art  the  spirit  of  the  earth, 
Whose  awful  shadow  looms  along  the  sky 

When  furious  battle  moans  in  giving  birth 
New  life  to  nations,  list  to  those  who  die! 

Give  balm  to  orphans'  woe  and  widows'  tears, 
And  peace  to  spirits  fled  of  all  who  fought; 

Give  nobler  ethics  to  the  newer  years, 

And  freedom  from  the  chains  that  folly  wrought. 

18 


If  Freedom,  Peace,  and  Progress  follow  fray, 
And  might  grow  merciful  with  growing  power; 

The  sad  world  welcomes  this  sad  crimson  day, 
And  worships  Nippon's  sun  this  bloody  hour. 

STAY  THY  HAND 

(1898) 

Fair  land  that  rolls  from  sea  to  sea! 

Prairies  fringed  with  palm  and  pine! 
Thy  mountains  mingle  mightily 

In  clasp  of  ice  and  kiss  of  vine. 

Broad  seas  of  meadow  daisy  strewn, 
And  winding  vales  caressed  by  streams, 

And  timid  valleys  green  as  June 

And  sweet  as  childhood's  happy  dreams, — 

O  peaceful  land  from  tide  to  tide! 

O  home  for  millions  yet  unborn! 
Oh,  what  would  you  of  oceans  wide, 

And  what  would  you  of  bugle-horn  ? 

United  States, — war-won  and  made 

Of  internecine  strife  and  tears 
One  blood,  one  flag,  one  damask  blade, — 

One  comrade-hope  to  greet  the  years! 

Lift  thou,  O  land,  thine  arm  no  more! 

Put  thou  the  kingly  crown  aside; 
Bare  thou  the  blade  our  fathers  wore 

To  guard  thine  own  where  thine  abide! 

19 


Thou  hast  no  need  for  navies  strong, 
No  need  for  martial  captains  bold! 

Thy  strength  resides  in  ploughman's  song 
Far  more  than  all  thy  yellow  gold. 

Smite  not  the  lowly  tribes  that  raise 

Their  swarthy  hands  in  Freedom's  name! 

Think  not  that  holy  men  will  praise 

Thy  creed  of  might,  thy  banner's  shame! 

The  puny  glory  won  of  tears, 

From  gory  crimes  of  war  and  death, 

Is  dead  to  praise  through  all  the  years 
And  doomed  by  mercy's  faintest  breath. 

Then  sheathe  thy  sword  from  tropic  isles, 
And  proudly  thou  let  heroes  hold 

Dominion  where  the  far  sea  smiles 

'Round  homes  peace-won  of  thy  red  gold. 

AMERICA 

(1904) 

Around  the  great  round  world  thy  pennants  fly. 

The  broad  seas'  breast  hath  felt  thy  loud  guns'  voice : 
Its  resonance  hath  kissed  the  shore  and  sky 

Till  foes  cried,  Peace!  for  lack  of  other  choice. 

Day  follows  night  as  thy  swift  eagles  soar. 

Thy  banner's  shadow  gives  thy  sons  their  light, 
As  powder-flash  foretells  the  cannon's  roar, 

As  sun -dawn  greets  the  day  in  eager  flight. 

20 


Thy  breast  hath  reconciled  the  songs  of  May 

With  Winter's   wail.      Strong  life  hath   smiled  in 
thee, — 

Strong  breath  of  God,  and  spirit  of  the  day, 
And  deepful  breathings  of  the  Western  Sea. 

Thy  deeds  are  deathless  as  th'  immortals  are. 

Thou  hast  the  splendor  of  great  dreams  that  dare 
The  fate  of  oceans  wide  'neath  cloud  or  star, — 

Thy  battle-line  hath  swept  thy  foe-line  bare. 

Yea,  Life  hath  smiled  in  thee,  and  thou  hast  smiled 
Upon  the  world.     Thine  eyes  have  heart  to  face 

All  foes  of  liberty  that  may  be  filed 

Along  the  world  in  wide  skies'  huge  embrace. 

Thy  brow  is  brave  enough  to  frown  on  all 
The  hateful  acts  of  man.     For  thou  art  great 

Among  thy  sisters, — great  and  proud  and  tall, 
Within  thy  mien  the  face  and  front  of  Fate ! 

Yet  two  things  menace  thee,  O  Land  of  Corn 
And  Cotton!     These  things  be  the  crimes  of  Cain 

In  great  south  gardens,  sweet  as  breath  of  morn, 
And  evil  plottings  of  thy  sons  for  gain. 

These  twain  cry  loud  to  pierce  thy  human  ears 
With  human  wails  escaped  from  red  throats  hoarse 

From  calling  down  the  cruel,  callous  years, 
And  answered  only  by  the  lash  of  force. 

21 


These  twain  are  piteous  from  lips  dark-skinned, 
And  sad  as  grief  from  whiter  sons  of  toil 

Who  suffer  north  and  south,  forever  sinned 
Against  by  soulless  greed  and  lords  of  soil. 

Look  forth  upon  thy  future,  O  proud  Land, 
With  faith  and  hope!  and  in  thy  gardens  south 

Protect  thy  dusky  ward  with  thy  right  hand! 
His  soul  hath  hungered  greater  than  his  mouth. 

Go  make  his  ways  as  flowery  as  thy  fields! 

For  thou  art  God-like  in  thy  strength  and  power. 
Go  wipe  the  stains,  that  Crime's  red  harvest  yields, 

From  off  thy  shield !     Stains  mar  it  at  this  hour. 

Within  thy  gardens  south  thy  sun-kissed  ward 
In  pity's  name  holds  out  to  thee  his  arms. 

Be  brave,  O  Soul,  as  he  who  was  thy  lord 
And  master-spirit,  sane  in  war's  alarms. 

Between  thy  breasts  thy  sons  of  toil  rebel, 
Who,  stronger  grown,  have  now  some  faith  in  life. 

The  time  approaches  when  the  battle-yell 

Shall  sound  again  in  fields  all  red  with  strife. 

Be  thou  their  friend:  too  long  have  they  been  banned! 

Breathe  courage  in  their  heart  and  strength  in  arm. 
Great  Soul,  lead  thou  the  way  of  wisdom  planned, 

And  guide  thine  own  from  Mammon's  mortal  harm! 

22 


And  when  thy  weaker  weanlings  question  thee, 
Or  pule  at  courage  shown  in  cause  of  right, 

Smile  thou  in  pity,  and  thy  purpose  be 

Unswerved.     Oh,  falter  not  in  thy  stern  might! 

They  shout,  "Imperialism!"  yelping  tikes, 
Or  sucklings  blind  to  thy  far  destiny! 

They  know  not  when  some  great  occasion  strikes 
The  clarion  word  to  man  imperiously. 

They  see  no  law  of  growth  in  thy  out-reach, 

No  wide  beneficence  to  all  the  race. 
They  only  hear  thy  strong-winged  eagles  screech, 

They  only  see  the  frown  upon  thy  face. 

But  there  be  those  who  see  behind  thy  frown, 
And  hear  the  songs  that  follow  scream  and  strife. 

Upon  thy  Jove-like  brow  they  see  no  crown, 
But  only  laurels  of  intenser  life. 

This  must  be  clear  to  thee,  O  Queen,  who  art 
The  chosen  one  of  world-wide  destiny: 

Thy  duty  is  allwhere,  in  every  mart 

And  clime  where  heart  hopes  for  fraternity. 

Dear  Titaness,  outgrown  of  sterile  forms, 

Aflush  with  newer  life  that  thrills  thee  through, 

Thy  brow  hath  nobler  courage  than  the  storms 
That  thunder  down  the  world,  and  threaten  you. 

23 


Without,  thou  hast  no  fear  of  any  foe, — 

Within  the  danger  lies,  if  any  be. 
Then  teach  thy  sons  the  word  that  they  should  know, — 

The  love  that  sanctifies  and  sweetens  thee. 

America,  we  pray  the  watch  of  night 

Be  passed,  and  thy  clear  vision  sees  afar. 

Dear  God  of  Peoples!    thrill  thy  soul  aright, 
And  keep  thy  purpose  true  as  any  star! 

For  thou  art  unconfined  between  the  seas 
By  musty  doctrines  worn  away  by  years. 

Thou  hast  the  power  for  good, — the  good  that  frees 
Thy  Sisters'  sons  from  caste  and  cruel  tears. 

Dear  Prophet-Queen,  and  Mistress  mightier  yet 
Of  realms  all  white  with  snow,  and  tropic  isles, 

And  seas  and  plains,  and  uplands  granite-set! 

Thy  commerce  kisses,  and  the  round  earth  smiles. 

Thy  commerce  kisses, — kisses  blossom  sweet 
With  bloom  of  Art, — and  subtle  Science  brings 

Her  trophies  fair  to  lay  them  at  thy  feet, 
While  on  thy  brow  the  living  laurel  clings. 

Thy  fervor  feels  this  iron  age  of  might 
Amid  the  moving  tide  of  worlds  on  fire; 

But  in  thy  breast  the  sacred  dreams  of  right 
Are  strong  in  ways  aflame  with  sweet  desire. 

24 


Great  love,  great  faith,  not  loathing  hatred,  thine; 

Nor  yet  unfaith  in  least  of  all  life's  kin! 
Unfurl  thy  flag,  and  let  its  white  stars  shine 

Where  hope  and  spiritual  glory  have  not  been. 

Unfurl  thy  flag!  unbend  its  crimson  bars 
Upon  the  winds  of  heaven,  floating  high 

Earth's  symbol  of  her  Sisterhood  with  stars, 
One  brotherhood  for  all  beneath  the  sky! 

The  God  of  Nations  beckons  thee  afar : 
Thou  hast  grim  missions  yet  ere  flag  be  furled, 

Beneath  the  glory  of  thy  fadeless  star 
Upon  the  federation  of  the  world. 


A  SKETCH 

(c.  O.  M.) 

To  say  a  man  is  faultless  bars  the  way 
For  saying  of  him  many  better  things. 

The  man  is  perfect,  then,  I  will  not  say; 
But  I  aver  that  some  Good  Angel  sings 

Within  him  purer  strains  than  men  control, 

And  from  the  Angel's  song  awakes  his  soul. 

For  he  is  just;  and  justice  is  a  song 

That  steals  within  the  heart  all  unaware, 

To  whiten  it  from  stain  of  mortal  wrong, 

And  consecrate  the  thoughts  that  blossom  there,- 

A  conscious  song,  that,  like  some  fairy  wraith, 

Is  alien  to  the  world  as  Doubt  to  Faith. 

25 


Unselfish  as  the  bloom  when  down  the  wood 
The  breath  of  spring  foregathers  sweets  to  fill 

The  world  with  fragrant  song;  so  kindly,  good 
Is  he  to  all  his  fellow-folk;  and  still 

His  generous  heart  has  that  whereof  to  give 

Fair  largess  to  the  meekest  things  that  live. 

His  honor  was  not  born  to  need  defence, — 

"Four  square  it  stands  to  every  wind  that  blows, " — 

A  mountain  peak  that  scorns  all  small  pretence, 
And  smiles  in  pity  on  the  thrusts  of  foes. 

A  man  of  pride, — nor  yet  too  proud  to  bend, — 

Thrice  grateful  for  the  chance  to  serve  a  friend. 

EDMUND   CLARENCE   STEDMAN 

(AT  THE   AGE    OF    SEVENTY) 

His  brow  bears  up  the  drifts  of  winter  snow 

Like  some  bold  headland  towering  toward  the  sky. 

He  looks  adown  the  world  where  harbors  lie, 
And  sees  the  burdened  ships  that  come  and  go. 
He  hears  the  whispering  wave-lips  murmur  low, 

And  all  the  loud-voiced  breakers  riding  high. 

To  him  a  fallen  leaf  now  floating  by 
Is  fraught  with  meaning  full  as  stars  may  show. 
And  far  across  the  land  where  human  cries 

Are  blent  with  happy  voices  soft  and  sweet, 
Where  joy  weds  grief  in  highways  of  surprise, 

Where  flowers  melt  in  fragrance,  all  too  fleet, 
Unto  his  soul  each  spirit-echo  flies 

With  song,  and  drops  a  blossom  at  his  feet. 

26 


LINES 

In  presentation  copy  of 
"Ballades:  Les  Rayons  et  Les  Ombres"  HUGO. 

When  frost  is  in  the  air 
And  day  is  gray  as  grief, 

Look  not  on  branches  bare, 
For  here  are  songs  in  leaf. 

And  here  are  fragrant  things 
That  breathe  the  soul  of  light; 

And  here  mysterious  wings 
Bring  shadows  from  the  night. 

The  Master  touched  all  strings 
That  thrill  the  harp  of  thought; 

And  still  the  echo  rings 

With  music  he  has  wrought. 

And  still  rejoicing  years 

Shall  know  the  measure  sweet 

Of  sun  and  shade,  of  tears 
And  joy  he  made  complete. 


TO  A  FRIEND 

Over  the  world  where  blossoms  foam, 
Or  on  the  sea-blown  billows  white, 

In  every  clime  where  you  may  roam 
In  pulse  of  day  or  heart  of  night, 

27 


Through  time  of  stress  or  stormy  weather, 
'Mid  hours  of  song  and  sun  and  leaf, 
May  garnered  joy  and  golden  sheaf 

Yet  speak  of  days  we  dwelt  together. 

For  Time  hath  teeth  with  which  to  gnaw, 

And  Fate  assumes  mysterious  guise 
Of  Chance  and  Change  and  clasp  of  law 

We  feel,  but  see  not  with  the  eyes. 
Still  mayest  thou  keep  through  shifting  weather, 

Whate'er  the  seasons  be  of  soul. 

Beneath  the  sky's  inverted  bowl, 
The  first  fair  dreams  we  dreamt  together. 


HERBERT  SPENCER 

Above  the  world  in  thought  he  stood  on  high 
But  yesterday, — a  towering,  conscious  peak, 
A  giant  lone,  titanic,  great  and  meek, — 

The  sole  Victorian  shaft  against  the  sky. 

He  looked  afar,  and  measured  with  his  eye 

All  depths  and  heights  that  the  immortals  seek, 
All  fancy-flooded  realms,  and  facts  that  speak 

In  divers  tongues  of  truth  that  few  deny. 

Now  lies  he  low;  but  whence  so  long  he  stood 
At  thought's  high  tide  ascends  a  pillared  flame. 

He  sleeps!     And  may  his  dreams  be  sweet  and  good! 
Large-lettered  on  the  dome  of  day,  his  name 

Shall  live  for  aye.     Within  the  solemn  wood 
Of  Highgate  Hill  his  dust  endures  with  Fame. 

28 


THE   LIGHT-HOUSE 

(TO    EDITH  CASKEY  COOPER) 

O'er  the  waves  a  light  is  gleaming, 

Rising  from  a  reef, 
Like  a  soul  in  darkness  beaming 

On  a  sea  of  grief; 
On  a  rocky  shore  as  lonely 

As  the  sea-caves  are 
Stands  a  light-house  shining  only, 

Shining  like  a  star. 

And  my  eyes  are  wet  with  weeping,- 

Weeping  for  the  drowned; 
While  upon  the  rocks  are  creeping 

Waves  of  hollow  sound, 
Wolfish  billows  that  are  blinder 

Than  the  corpse  below, 
Cruel  waves,  yet  not  unkinder 

Than  some  hearts  I  know. 


All  the  night  the  light  is  streaming 

From  a  tower  of  gloom, 
Like  a  midnight  watcher  dreaming 

In  the  face  of  doom. 
All  night  long  it  watches,  turning 

Ever  round  and  round; 
While  its  fiery  heart  is  burning 

Through  the  breakers'  sound. 

29 


And  my  heart  has  less  of  sadness 

As  the  rays  illume, 
Warning  sailors  of  the  madness 

Known  of  reef  and  spume. 
For  my  soul  through  years  of  dreaming, 

Watching  for  the  light, 
Sees  at  last  a  beacon  gleaming 

On  the  shores  of  night. 

Serene,  the  Soul's  prophetic  token 

Flashes  in  a  look, — 
Not  the  hollow  promise  spoken 

In  a  creed  or  book, — 
But  the  secret  of  our  seeing 

Sweeps  the  sea  afar 
From  the  light-house  of  our  being, 

Shining  like  a  star. 

O'er  the  waves  a  light  is  gleaming, 

Rising  from  a  reef, 
Like  a  soul  in  darkness  beaming 

On  a  sea  of  grief; 
On  a  rocky  shore  as  lonely 

As  the  sea-caves  are 
Stands  a  light-house  shining  only, 

Shining  like  a  star. 


30 


JOHN  JAMES   INGALLS 

(IN  MEMORIAM) 
Now  long  ago, — for  I  have  heard  it  told 

How  yesterdays  are  ancient  as  the  sun, 

And  how  they  rob  to-morrows,  one  by  one, 
Of  joys;  how  moments  fled  are  dead  and  old, — 
So  long  ago  I  stood  beside  this  bold 

And  fearless  man.     I  touched  his  hand  that  none 

Unknown  to  shame  had  feared.     'Twas  then  begun 
My  love  that  deepens  as  the  years  unfold. 
O  sorrows  infinite  that  smite  the  breast 

Of  finite  consciousness!     The  moan  and  wail 
Of  grief  are  sombre  birds,  that  never  rest 

While  throbbing  darkness  beats  and  waves  assail 
The  wreckage  ever  rudderlessly  pressed 

To  unknown  tides  'neath  stars  that  fade  and  fail. 

THE   PALE   HORSE 

And  at  my  door  the  pale  horse  stands 
To  bear  me  forth  to  unknown  lands. 

JOHN  HAY. 
There  in  the  gloomy  midnight 

With  all  the  stars  asleep, 
Beneath  the  floating  rivers 

That  cross  the  mystic  deep, 
The  pale  horse  pawed  and  whinnied, 

As  restless  as  the  sea, 
To  take  a  great  soul  forward 
From  where  it  loved  to  be. 

31 


Before  "The  Fells"  at  midnight 

The  pale  horse  pawed  and  neighed; 
But  only  the  shadows  saw  him, 

And  only  the  shadows  made 
The  sign  that  he  was  present, 

And  deaf  was  mortal  ear 
To  prancing  hoof  and  whinny 

Of  the  pale  horse  waiting  near. 

The  stirrups  swayed  at  midnight; 

A  clear-eyed  spirit  strode 
The  charger  pale  as  morning, 

And  bravely  away  he  rode. 
He  took  the  path  that  mortals 

Begin  when  Day  is  done, — 
A  path  for  his  great  spirit 

To  hills  beyond  the  sun. 

In  deepest  gloom  of  midnight, 

Through  vales  of  quiet  sleep, 
He  left  the  kisses  of  children 

And  laurels  for  wife  to  keep. 
The  horse  was  pale  as  moonlight 

That  bore  his  honored  name, 
With  love  of  home  and  country, 

To  higher  hills  than  Fame. 

From  sombre  pines  at  midnight, 
Across  New  Hampshire  hills, 

A  faint  breath  floats  and  kisses 
The  half-mast  flag  it  thrills, 

32 


And  tells  a  grieving  people 
Of  the  pale  horse  in  his  flight 

That  bore  a  splendid  spirit 
Away  from  earth  at  night. 


TO  A  DEAD  MAN 

On  the  hillside,  in  the  quiet,  from  the  world  apart, 
Resting  in  the  sombre,  silent  shadows  after  life, 
Sleeping  in  the  solemn  memories  made  of  weary  strife, 
We  have  left  him  as  we  laid  him  with  a  wreath  above 
his  heart. 

All  the  trees  had  hushed  their  murmurs  in  the  grave 
yard  where  they  stood; 

All  the  grasses,  like  sweet  children  under  sorrow's 
early  blow, 

Joined  the  silence  of  the  mourners,  drooping  sadly, 
seemed  to  know 

What  the  leaves  lost  in  the  forest,  why  the  stillness 
of  the  wood. 

We  were  children  then  beside  him,  and   the  eldest  of 

us  felt 
Helpless,    hopeless,   in   the    darkness   there,    though 

highest  stood  the  sun. 
And  we    marvelled   at    his    stillness,  that    his   active 

life  was  done, 
And  the  mystery  of  his  manner  rose  triumphant  as  we 

knelt. 

33 


On  the  hillside,  in  the  quiet,  at  a  peaceful  place, 
Resting  in  the  sombre,  silent  shadows  after  life, 
Sleeping  in  the  solemn  memories  made  of  weary  strife, 
We  have  left  him  as  we  laid  him  with  a  smile  upon 
his  face. 


MAROONED 

Long,  long  ago  I  prayed  to  God, 

Prayed  as  a  little  child  on  bended  knee, 
In  the  same  sweet  fervor,  love,  that  I  give  to  thee 
My  whole  heart  now,  and  through  the  long  night's 
sleep  wherein  thy  dreams  are  one  with  blossoms 
rooted  in  the  sod. 


Yes,  once  I  prayed,  and  now  I  pray  no  less, 
Because  my  love  for  thee  takes  all  my  speech, 
Even  as  no  space  too  distant  is  beyond  the  reach 
Of  God's  great  laws.     So  are  the  harmonies  of  thee 
which  search  me  through  until  my  very  soul  for 
gets  that  aught  else  may  bless. 

I  watch  the  red  sun  rise  above  the  sea, 
Far  out  beyond  the  marshes'  level  rim 
Where  the  cool  mists  mingle  and  make  dim 
The  ships,  so  like  the  phantom  memories  and  hope 
less   dreams   and   shifting   mysteries   (forever  in 
my  brain)  of  thee. 

34 


Beyond  the  great  hills  in  the  West's  embrace 
I  see  the  sun  sink  low  in  golden  sleep, 
While  all  the  warden  stars  come  out  to  keep 

Their  watch  upon  the  world,  as  if  to  seek  the  rare 
beauty  of  thine  eyes,  and  smile  upon  thy  face. 

And  here  upon  the  marshes  in  the  night, 
I  know  that  I  am  long  marooned  by  fate, 
Broken  with  weariness  and  cold,  to  watch  and  wait 
For  the  slow  dawn  to  break  in  glory  of  love's  perfect 
day,  the  perfectness  whereof  shall  be  thy  image 
to  my  sight. 


ROBERT  G.  INGERSOLL 

We  kiss  the  urn  that  guards  his  sacred  dust; 
With  reverent  lips  we  press  the  speechless  urn; 
We  kiss  our  shrine,  and  clasp  it  as  we  must, 
For  on  life's  road  it  marks  the  stop  or  turn — 
We  cannot  say  which  'twas — the  Master  made. 
We  only  know  his  god-like  presence  there 
Was  touched  to  smile,  and  waft  a  kiss,  and  fade. 
Some  think  he  journeys  on,  and  some  declare 
It  is  the  end.     But  we  who  loved  him  so, 
And  stood  like  children  at  his  knee  to  hear 
The  golden  words,  confess  we  do  not  know; 
And  yet  our  love  and  hope  out-wing  all  fear. 

This  much  we  know:  whate'er  the  seasons  be 
Of  soul  beyond  our  straining,  tear-dimmed  sight, 

35 


This  blessed  man  is  Prince  of  Joy;  that  he 

Who  made  of  clay  and  tears  and  laughing  light 

The  tenderest  memories  of  adoring  wife, 

The  sweetest  dreams  that  children  ever  knew, 

And  charmed  with  friendship's  mantling  love  the  life 

Of  stumbling,  weary  souls  inspired  anew 

To  climb  the  hills, — this  holy  man  who  thrilled 

A  million  men  with  love  of  better  things, 

Who  sowed  the  seeds  of  flowering  thought  that  filled 

The  happy  gardens  of  the  world,  where  sings 

The  mated  bird,  and  where  the  rippling  streams 

Of  children's  laughter  and  the  soft  low  breath 

Of  maidens'  vows  have  peopled  poets'  dreams 

Of  immortality,  of  life  and  death, — 

This  brave  and  tender  man  who  never  wronged 

The  least  of  any  race,  who  fought  for  right, 

Who  loved  the  world,  abhorred  the  myths  that  throng 

With  devils,  saints,  and  gods  and  creeds  of  might, — 

This  saner,  sweeter,  nobler  Christ  is  blest; 

For,  whether  souls  live  on  or  starless  night 

Enfolds,  we  know  dear  Robert  is  carest 

By  dreamless  sleep,  or  lives — a  Prince  of  Light. 


WALT  WHITMAN 

He  gave  his  wealth  to  the  summer  air 

As  a  spendthrift  flower  its  perfume  rare. 

He  knew  not  what  was  discontent, 

For  he  worshipped  the  god  of  abandonment. 

36 


He  walked  the  daisied  fields  of  God 
Dreaming  the  dreams  new-born  of  the  sod. 
And  beings  that  breathed  where  his  footsteps  bent 
Somehow  breathed,  too,  of  abandonment. 

He  sang  old  songs  of  the  world  when  new 
That  in  some  sweet  way  were  as  fresh  as  the  dew; 
And  he  laughed  as  he  drank  the  happy  air, 
As  a  child  might  laugh  in  a  rocking-chair. 

He  kissed  his  hand  to  a  mocking-bird, 
And  the  dear  thing  sang,  as  I  never  heard, 
Some  wayward  strain  of  wild  content 
That  thrilled  its  mate  with  abandonment. 

He  bared  his  breast  to  the  winsome  breeze, 
With  half-shut  eyes  gazed  long  at  the  trees 
That,  shading  the  lazy  river's  brim, 
Stopped  in  their  gossip  to  bow  at  him. 

With  the  pink  lips  close  of  a  shell  to  his  ear 
He  listened  long,  and  seemed  to  hear 
The  song  of  the  sea  as  it  kissed  the  shore, 
While  his  deep  eyes  drank  in  a  world  or  more. 

And  he  faded  away  from  the  sight  of  men; 
But  the  trees,  I  guess,  have  seen  him  again, 
And  the  mocking-birds  and  flowers  and  grass, 
The  sod  and  breeze,  have  seen  him  pass. 

37 


For  his  wondrous  ways  of  abandonment, 
His  wealth  of  ways  and  sweet  content, 
Live  on  in  the  love  of  bird  and  breeze, 
In  flowering  things  and  brooks  and  trees. 

And  I  sometimes  think,  when  the  sun  hangs  low 
And  revels  in  painting  the  clouds  aglow, 
That  he  speaks  to  me  with  his  wistful  eyes 
Of  abandonment  in  the  wine-spilt  skies. 


BEAUTY'S  SLAVE 

Oh,  let  me  be  thy  taper,  love, 

And  for  thy  beauty  burn! 
I  care  not  where  your  glorious  eyes 

In  rapturous  love  may  turn, 
If  only  I  may  lay  myself 

In  wanton  waste  to  you; 
Your  breasts  of  snow  may  still  be  snow 

If  passion  burn  them  through. 

Your  heart  of  snow  may  still  be  snow 

If  I,  a  coal,  may  lie 
Upon  your  bosoms  white  at  night, 

And  glow  and  burn  and  die. 
I  care  not  where  your  glorious  eyes 

In  rapturous  love  may  turn, 
If  I  may  be  thy  taper,  love, 

And  thou  thy  taper's  urn. 

38 


BIRTHDAY  BLOSSOMS 

(SEPTEMBER  16,          .) 
The  years  are  fair  and  fleet, 
With  every  year  a  blossom 
And  every  blossom  sweet. 

Thy  life  first  dropped  its  rootlets  in  the  garden  of  a 

dream; 
The  garden  smiled  a  welcome,  and  the  welcome,  it 

would  seem, 
Each  year  put  forth  a  blossom,  and  each  year  the 

blossom  grows 
More   sweet   with   each    September   as   the   blossom 

blooms  a  rose. 

And  love  was  in  the  sunlight  when  thy  life  was  just 

begun; 
And  beauty  wooed  its  blossoms  as  the  years  fled,  one 

by  one, 
Until  the  bud  and  blossom  met  in  mild  September 

haze, 
When  beauty  dreamt  of  kisses,  kisses  blossomed  into 

days. 

And  thus  in  mild  September,  when  the  year  is  down 
ward  bent, 

The  blossom  of  thy  beauty,  with  the  bloom  that  love 
has  lent, 

Is  blown  to  saintly  sweetness  in  the  soft  September 
haze, 

In  token  of  the  memory-buds  that  mark  thy  natal  days. 

39 


May  all  thy  days  be  roses  with  their  petals  velvet- 
gowned; 

May  all-to-come  Septembers  find  thee  fair  as  this  has 
found; 

May  life  and  love  and  beauty  make  unceasing  union 
here, 

Until  the  roses  faint  with  joy  and  time  is  brown  and 
sere! 

A  SONG  OF  THE  SUN  AND  DEW 
If  I  were  the  sun  and  you  were  the  dew, 

Each  morn  as  the  world  lay  asleep, 
Now  can't  you  guess  what  I  would  do 
If  I  were  the  sun  and  you  were  the  dew 

And  the  old  world  half  asleep  ? 

I'd  draw  you  away  from  the  arms  of  day, 

And  take  you  along  with  me; 
And  fold  you  close  as  a  rosebud  tight, 
And  set  you  down  on  the  shores  of  night, 

And  put  you  to  sleep  by  a  sombre  sea, 
Watched  by  the  eyes  of  the  starry  skies, 
Kissed  by  the  breezes  soft  and  low, — 
Kissed  and  kept  till  the  morning  glow 

Should  give  you  back  to  me. 

So,  if  I  were  the  sun  and  you  were  the  dew, 

Each  morn  as  the  world  lay  asleep, 
Now  can't  you  guess  what  I  would  do 
If  I  were  the  sun  and  you  were  the  dew 
And  the  old  world  half  asleep  ? 

40 


MY  HELEN'S  EYES 

Where  Georgia  uplands  touch  the  skies, 
Now  gray  with  clouds  and  clinging  mist; 

Where  changing  beauty  never  dies 

On  red  hills  warm  and  purple-kissed; 

Where  oak  and  pine  hold  strong  domain, 
With  leaf  and  vine  aglow  with  dreams 

Of  semi-tropic  tempered  rain, 

That  bursts  in  song  from  fretted  streams; 

Where  cabins  peep  from  cotton  fields, 
Or  sheltered  meads  that  house  the  quail, 

Where  summer  lingers,  loves  and  shields 
The  nursling  shoots  of  hill  and  vale; 

Where  dancing  fairies  tame  the  air, 
Till  every  little  breeze  that  blows 

Holds  in  its  heart,  like  gloom  of  hair, 
Some  mystery  that  beauty  knows, — 

I  linger  yet,  while  Memory  holds 

Her  longing  face  averted-wise 
To  southward  where  deep  browns  and  golds 

Are  wedded  in  my  Helen's  eyes. 


41 


SONG  OF  A  STARLING 

An  inspiration  golden 

Came  with  me  to  dwell, 
Dainty  as  a  sunbeam 

In  a  lily-bell, — 
Dainty  as  a  sunbeam, 

Dearest  thing  I  knew! 
But,  oh,  it  was  crushed,  love, 

'Neath  the  heel  of  you. 

Precious  little  tempter! 

Your  trysting-place  and  trust 
A  darling  little  woman 

Has  trampled  in  the  dust. 
You  fell  before  her  lifeless, 

Because  the  words  she  said 
Had  chilled  my  dainty  starling 

Until  its  life  had  fled. 

I  laid  you  on  her  bosom 

Of  bare  and  billowed  white; 
But  the  soul  of  you  had  perished 

In  the  mystery  of  night. 
Her  thrill,  though  warm  and  woosomer 

My  agony  and  pain, 
Could  ne'er  recall  your  spirit 

To  that  which  she  had  slain. 

My  eager  arms  are  empty; 

My  woful  heart  would  break, — 
I  call  thee  tender  names,  love, 

Ten  thousand  for  her  sake! 
42 


My  whispers  woo  thee  nightly: 
They  haunt  the  smiling  shore, 

When,  dreaming  for  a  moment, 
You  live  with  us  once  more. 

But,  oh,  my  flitting  fancy, 

Dear  angel  sprite  of  soul! 
You  fled  beyond  my  vision 

Of  utter  hope  and  goal. 
I  linger  weary,  waiting, 

And  watching  through  my  tears, 
With  burning  blindness  yearning 

For  thee,  my  love  of  years. 

Why  bear  this  grim  "forever," 

This  bite  of  grief  sublime, 
When  never  star-babe  blesses 

Again  my  tired  time 
With  e'er  again  another, 

Nor  little  beam  of  light 
From  constellated  musings 

Where  sits  the  sable  Night  ? 

An  inspiration  golden 

Came  with  me  to  dwell, 
Dainty  as  a  sunbeam 

In  a  lily-bell, — 
Dainty  as  a  moonbeam 

Dancing  in  the  dew! 
But,  oh,  it  was  crushed,  love, 

'Neath  the  heel  of  you. 

43 


KISSES 

The  lips  that  I  have  kissed  with  heat 
Are  red  with  blood  and  bee-stung  yet: 

My  loves  have  found  no  grave  so  sweet 
As  this, — to  love  and  then  forget. 

I  have  no  flesh-loves  under  ground, — 
No  gaunt  remorse  comes  back  to  turn 

My  passion-songs  to  plaintive  sound, 
Where  cypress  creeps  among  the  fern. 

When  scarlet  fades  from  lips  that  swelled 
When  my  lips  pressed  them  close  and  long, 

And  dusts  of  earth  fill  eyes  that  held 
The  mystic  light  of  starry  song, 

I  know  how  joyless  day  shall  be, 

How  all  the  night's  uncertain  gloom 

Shall  throng  with  doubts  to  menace  me, 
And  memories  which  crowd  the  tomb. 

And  so  I  laugh  and  laugh;  and  yet — 
I  dream  sometimes  my  love  is  dead, 

When  not  a  thing  lets  me  forget 

The  least  she  did,  the  least  she  said. 

And  there  within  the  folds  of  sleep 
My  soul  doth  seek  the  opiate-clod 

Where  she  each  night  hath  flowers  to  keep 
Sweet  kisses  moist  upon  the  sod. 

44 


Her  dew-wet  kisses  eve  and  dawn, 

Where  phantom  daisies  droop  and  nod, 

In  mystery  of  dreams  have  drawn 
Some  tender  magic  down  from  God. 

LATE  SUMMER 

Large  were  her  breasts,  and  in  her  eyes 
Dwelt  the  memories  of  other  days, —    , 

Dream-spun  ghosts  'neath  Italian  skies, 
Fleecy  clouds  and  a  changing  haze 

Of  dead  love's  longing,  and  a  dead  love's  vow. 

Full  and  shapely  lay  her  lips 

In  sad  repose  that  was  half  a  smile, 

And  generous  curves  threw  no  eclipse 
On  passion  too  plaintive  to  make  denial 

From  dimple  of  foot  to  placid  brow. 

Threads  of  gray  in  her  soft  brown  hair 
Quickened  my  love  for  her  ripened  wealth 

Of  womanly  beauty,  and  I  declare 
My  heart  fell  prey  to  a  subtle  stealth, 

That  her  bated  beauty  holds  even  now. 

A  HANDFUL  OF  CLOVER 

There's  a  blood-red  fleck  on  my  lady's  breast, 
And  a  sea  of  night  in  my  lady's  eyes, 

And  coral  tips  of  the  clover  rest 

Too  close  to  the  flesh  that  I  covet  and  prize. 

45 


There's  a  beautiful  world  where  my  lady  breathes, 
There's  Egyptian  wealth  in  her  hair  of  night, 

And  the  pale  pink  clover  binds  and  wreathes 
A  brow  as  fair  as  the  soul  of  light. 

So  I  dream  of  her  lips,  and  the  ruby  red 
That  an  angel  left  on  her  fair  fine  breast, 

Till  my  heart  must  speak,  though  my  soul  hath  said 
It  envies  the  clover  she  kissed  and  pressed. 


EVEN   SO 

Your  flame  of  love  burns  low,  my  pet. 
The  twilight's  dawn  and  night's  high  noon 

Have  drowsed  away,  I  know,  and  yet — 
I  mourn  your  loss  of  love  so  soon. 

Perchance  some  newer  taper  burns 
The  moth-wings  of  your  soul,  my  pet; 

For  love  like  yours  laughs  once  and  turns 
Where  even  dagger-points  forget. 

Your  love  hath  rode  the  heights,  my  pet, 
Bare-back  astride  some  bat  of  night; 

And  you  have  thought  well  to  forget 
Our  crimson  crush  of  love  at  sight. 

Your  love  hath  sounded  all  the  deeps, 
But  not  as  eagles  cleave  the  air; 

And  yet  the  slimy  lizard  creeps 
Perhaps  to  caves  you  did  not  dare. 

46 


Your  love  hath  known  of  forests  dark, 
And  not  where  holy  trees  find  breath, 

But  down  the  gulfs  where  mushrooms  stark 
Uplift  their  pallid  stems  of  death. 

I  mourn  your  loss  of  love,  my  pet; 
I  mourn  for  your  poor  crippled  wings. 

For  I — well,  I  must  needs  forget 
The  tarnished  hope  of  changing  things. 


A  LOVE-QUEEN 

Tall  as  stately  lilies  grow, 

My  Queen  is  all  that  queens  may  be. 
And  dreams  that  sleeping  poppies  know 

Live  in  her  eyes  and  speak  to  me 
Of  all  that  passion  dares  to  paint 

Upon  the  canvas  of  the  soul. 

Black  as  night  when  star-eyes  sleep, 
My  lady's  hair  hangs  low  and  lies 

In  witching  curls  where  fairies  keep 

Their  watch  and  ward;  and  mine  own  eyes 

That  wander  free  from  all  restraint 

Drink  deep  where  blue-veined  billows  roll. 

Ample  breasts  of  snow  and  fire, 

And  waist  and  hips  of  more  than  grace! 

My  lady  holds  my  fierce  desire 
In  thrall  with  her  Madonna  face, 

47 


Till  I  could  die  for  beauty's  sake, 
Or  live  where  her  red  roses  blow. 

Dear  and  sweet  is  love's  caress: 

The  touch  of  her  small  hand  to  me 

Is  like  the  kiss  of  flowers  that  bless 
Some  vagrant  breeze  just  off  the  sea; 

Or,  like  the  dews  to  plants  half-wake 
Ere  eastern  skies  begin  to  glow. 


ONE  CLINGING  HOUR 

In  dim  Swiss  valleys  sweet  with  hay 
New-made  by  peasant  girls  I  spent 

Some  early  blushes.     Life's  red  day 
Unwound  itself  from  night,  and  lent 

The  purple-poppied  love  to  sing 
And  soothe.     The  new-mown  hay  was  blent 

With  shadows;  and  on  happy  wing 
The  mated  bird  wooed  blithe  content. 

And,  lo!  between  the  cool  white  peaks 
I  measured  all  my  world,  and  found 

For  one  short  summer  day  the  cheeks 
That  told  their  blushes  to  the  ground 

As  eager  flags  of  flame  unfurled 
A  mute  desire  in  mine.     No  sound 

Profaned  the  clinging  hour.     Earth  hurled 
Itself  away,  and  we  were  bound. 

48 


KATHLEEN 

My  love  to  her  is  like  some  fairy  gown: 

She  puts  it  on  when  skies  are  blue,  and  earth, 
A  dimpled  babe  of  heaven,  smiles, — when  mirth 
And  golden  pleasure,  as  a  jaunty  crown 
Upon  her  brow,  have  made  her  quite  the  queen, — 
A  careless  mistress  she,  my  fair  Kathleen! 

My  love  she  holds  it  well  to  don  and  doff, 
Is  proud  to  know  that  it  is  all  her  own, 
Yet  lightly  deems  it  as  a  thistle  blown 

Across  some  sunny  lawn, — a  thing  to  scoff, 

Or  trifling  toy  put  by  and  left  unseen 

When  break  the  sober  dawns  on  fair  Kathleen. 

She  wears  my  love  as  maidens  wear  a  rose: 
To-night  it  nestles  near  her  proud  heart-beat, 
At  dawn  its  petals  lie  where  her  white  feet 
Shall  pass  and  crush  them  'neath  their  magic  snows 
With  cruel  scorn,  as  all  the  world  has  seen 
Her  hapless  lovers  crushed  by  fair  Kathleen. 


REQUITAL 

I  sought  in  dreams  a  Princess  dear  to  me: 

I  wandered  where  the  wind's  soft  whispers  told 
Sweet  grass  and  trees  of  her; 

I  questioned  all  the  colors, — flower  and  tree, 

49 


And  tangent  kiss  of  sun  that  flooded  them 

With  beauty's  apothegm 

Of  her  dark  hair  and  eyes. 
Yet  she  eluded  me  as  shadows  run 
Before  the  eager  face  of  wooing  sun 

When  white  clouds  fleck  the  skies. 

Not  till  morning  almost  touched  the  noon 
With  fervent  kiss,  did  I  behold  my  love, 
Whose  hair  was  night,  whose  eyes 
Of  liquid  darkness  made  my  hot  blood  swoon 
With  such  delicious  things  that,  ail  aglow, 
I  marvelled  at  the  snow 

Of  her  too  perfect  breast. 

Now  is  she  come,  and,  like  each  perfect  thing, 
Brings  pain  with  overjoy.     And  so  I  fling 
In  air  my  heart's  behest. 


A  ROSE  SONG 

0  dark  red  rose,  O  blood-red  rose, 
O  flower  to  my  fancy  wed! 

1  wonder  if  your  mistress  knows 
The  tears  that  we  have  shed  ? 

You  nestle  where  her  hands  have  placed 
Your  bursting  heart  to  mine, 

Where  every  beat  lies  love-encased 
As  leaves  fold  over  thine. 

50 


O  dear  red  rose,  O  deep  dark  rose, 

I  wonder  if  there  be 
One  little  pang  your  mistress  knows 

Since  you  have  died  for  me  ? 

Alone  you  grew,  and  wooing  breeze 

Embraced  your  fragrant  breath. 
Her  dainty  hand  recked  not  of  these, 

Nor  of  your  love-lorn  death. 

Nor  weep,  dear  rose,  but  sleep,  red  rose, 

And  dream  of  her  dusky  eyes. 
Pray  God,  red  rose,  that  your  mistress  knows 

The  flames  you  symbolize. 


NIGHT  IN  THE  PARK 

Bright  and  far  were  holy  stars, 
Dark  and  near  the  shadows  stood, 

Red  as  blood  the  planet  Mars, — 
Brooding  night  was  on  the  wood. 

Soft  as  stealing  shadows  move, 
Gentle  as  the  cradled  boat, 

Girdling,  clasped  the  arms  of  love, 
Trembling  kisses  sought  her  throat. 

Starry  dancers  tripped  the  lake, 
Hushed  the  whispers  of  the  dark, 

Love  and  Life  were  half  awake, 
Half  asleep  in  Forest  Park. 

51 


While  the  drowsy  curtains  fell, 
And  the  lazy  moon  was  late, 

Who  shall  speak,  and  who  may  tell 
Of  the  endless  ways  of  fate  ? 

Gentle  Christ!    the  waters  kissed, 
Soft  as  love,  the  leaning  grass; 

Did  we  gain,  or  have  we  missed, 
Something  that  in  whispers  pass  ? 

Lovers  face  an  endless  guess: 

Which  is  wrong  and  what  is  right  ? 

Still  I  hold  it  well  to  bless 

All  the  ways  of  fate  that  night. 


VIOLETS 

In  a  garden  of  old  Verona, 

Where  tender  violets  grow, 
I  walked  with  a  queenly  woman; 

And  I  would  that  she  might  know 
My  heart  was  aflame  with  passion 

That  glad  and  golden  hour, 
When  I  plucked  the  purple  blossom  - 

And  she  folded  away  the  flower. 


A  SMILE  OF  AUTUMN 

Wan  autumn  lights  are  sighing  on  the  hills, 
The  harvest  fields  are  sad  and  shorn, 

52 


There  is  no  music  in  the  solemn  rills, 

And  only  a  harsh  murmur  in  the  fields  of  corn. 

But  in  her  fawn-brown  eyes  that  follow  me 
No  sadness  lurks  nor  tearful  thought: 

All  melody  of  earth  and  sky  and  sea 

Lives  in  the  magic  spell  that  she  has  wrought. 

Thus  all  the  seasons'  change  to  me  doth  seem 

Unlike  the  fitful,  moody  years, 
But  rather  like  some  ever-changing  dream 

Of  joy  that  never  knew  the  salt  of  tears. 

There  is  not  any  grief  and  no  regret 

In  this  dear  boon  that  blesses  me; 
No  little  thing  my  heart  would  fain  forget 

In  all  the  mystic  depths  of  Love's  great  sea. 


LOVE'S  STAR 

My  love  is  sweet  as  some  dear  flower, 

That  dreams  of  dawn  and  dew; 
And  pure  as  chimes  that  fairies  ring 
From  blossoms  blithe  and  bloom  of  spring, 
When  dusk  is  in  the  hour 
And  grass  is  green  and  new. 

I  dream  amazed  of  days  that  were 

Before  my  love  was  mine; 
And  wonder  why  we  dwelt  apart, 

53 


Two  souls  with  but  a  single  heart 

And  that  heart  all  with  her, 

And  she  all  but  divine. 
But,  when  I  think  how  pure  and  white 

Her  soul  is  on  the  earth, 
I  wonder  not,  but  marvel  why 
A  mortal  won  a  star  from  sky, 

Ablaze  with  love  and  light 

For  one  so  poor  in  worth. 

A  MAN'S   MARVEL 

O  love,  thy  heart  is  whiter  than  the  white  snow 

Of  frost-bloom  down  the  air. 
Dear  heart,  thy  breath  is  sweeter  than  soft  June  sighs, 

When  all  the  world  is  fair. 

O  love,  thy  brow  slopes  up  to  God, 
Thine  arms  reach  down  to  me. 

Thou  art  the  sun,  and  I  the  sod 
A-blossom  under  thee. 

O  love,  thy  soul  more  perfect  is  than  dreams  are 
When  my  glad  heart  leaps  to  thine. 

Dear  one,  I  love  thee  deeply, — more  than  man  loves 
The  something  deemed  divine. 

O  love,  thine  eyes  light  all  the  skies: 

I  marvel  that  for  me 
They  bend  their  beams  all  mercy-wise 

To  earth  where  mortals  be. 

54 


SIXTEEN 

Centre-Saint  gris! 

(HENRY  iv.  AND  CHARLOTTE  MARGUERITE  DE  MONT- 
MORENCY) 

With  two-step  lilt  she  skims  the  street: 
She  walks  with  dreamland  graces  yet; 

And  all  the  while  her  musicked  feet 
Keep  time  my  soul  would  fain  forget. 

I  cannot  choose  but  follow  there, 

With  old-time  odors  over  me, 
Where  trails  her  burnished  noon  of  hair, — 

A  breath  of  dainty  subtlety. 

Her  laughing  words  assail  my  ears, 

And  set  aflame  dead-leaf  desires; 
While  Maytime  mist  upfloats  in  tears, 

And  dim-eyed  ashes  dream  of  fires. 

To  walk  again  the  pansied  path, 
Forget  the  lessons  love  has  taught, 

I  would  defy  the  direst  wrath 

That  ever  man  or  demon  wrought. 

Old  Spider  Time  enmeshes  me, 

And  rime  of  years  has  robbed  my  hair 

Of  all  the  golden  mystery 

That  used  to  dance  and  shimmer  there. 

55 


Ah  you,  O  maid  of  poppy  bloom 
And  lily's  dower  of  sinless  hue! 

I  loathe  to  think  that  at  his  loom 
The  gray  old  Spider  spins  for  you. 


FATE 

Thou  art  a  cunning  tide  that  sneaks  and  crawls 
From  out  the  hungry  horror  of  the  night; 
Or  like  a  maddened  fury  in  thy  might, 

Tormented  by  the  moon  and  sharp  sea-squalls. 

Within  thy  depths  a  black  heart  laughs  at  woe, 
And  mocks  with  glee  thy  victim's  gasping  breath 
Ere  mangled  life  and  hope  are  one  in  death, 

Or  drowned  ambition  lies  a  corpse  below. 

I  see  thy  shadowy  fingers  crook  and  reach: 

I  hear  thee  screech  where  scattered  waifs  are  cast 
Along  the  shore  of  days  now  overpast, — 

Along  gray  reefs  and  on  the  pounding  beach. 

I  know  thy  subtle  ways  of  hidden  snares 

That  lure  the  soul  some  pleasant  path  to  take, 
And  where  thy  thousand  seemly  whispers  make 

Ten  thousand  dangers  worse  for  him  who  fares. 

But  my  defiant  soul  hath  scorn  for  thee: 
If  grief  shall  break  my  heart,  I  answer  yet, 
/  have  a  heart  to  break!  and  can  forget 

The  stones  that  bruise,  the  hunger  pressing  me. 

56 


I  have  the  will  to  look  between  thine  eyes. 

If  thou  art  Master,  I  at  least  can  be 

As  fearless  as  the  spirit  blessing  me 
With  conscious  trust  in  all  things  'neath  the  skies. 

Erect  my  soul  shall  stand  forefronting  thee, — 
Exulting  strength  that  dares  thy  sternest  might; 
All  unafraid  to  face  the  blackest  night 

That  e'er  was  filled  with  threats  on  land  or  sea. 

If  fortune  fail  me,  let  her  go  and  stay! 

My  soul  from  all  that  is  came  forth  entire, 
To  all  that  is  with  calm  faith  can  retire, 

Enrobed  for  rest  or  armored  for  the  fray. 

So,  if  my  soul  shall  journey  on  and  grow 
More  perfect,  then  have  I  no  cause  to  fear; 
And  if  it  melts,  dissolves  like  dead  leaves  sere, 

Then  thou  canst  never  harm  it, — that  I  know. 


A  BALLAD  OF  CHANGE 

There  stood  along  the  king's  highway 

A  stolid  house  hard-by; 
The  eaves  were  sloping  low  between 

Two  willows  spreading  high; 
White  lilacs  in  the  dooryard  bloomed, 

With  tiger-lilies  nigh. 

Tall  locust-trees  stood  on  the  left, 
A  lane  ran  down  the  right; 

57 


Behind,  the  smiling  garden  crept 
To  foaming  orchards  white. 

And  all  around  the  spacious  ground 
Were  fireflies  at  night. 

Beyond  the  orchard  flowed  a  stream 

With  chestnuts  on  the  bank; 
Beneath  them  slender  violets  grew, 

Below  them  cattle  drank. 
And  over  all  was  sun  by  day, 

At  night  the  dews  were  dank. 

The  dews  were  dank  at  early  morn; 

At  morn  the  roses  seemed 
To  blush  with  modesty  because 

So  many  jewels  gleamed. 
The  hollyhocks  demurely  stood 

But  half  awake,  and  dreamed. 

The  spreading  currant  bushes  low 

Were  coral-gemmed  between 
The  berry  vines  and  jessamines 

And  dahlias'  leaves  of  green. 
While  bleeding-hearts  beside  them  grew,- 

The  reddest  I  have  seen. 

The  cypress  cooled  the  corner-stone, 

A  juniper  the  door; 
A  grape-vine  climbed  its  trellis  near, 

While  on  the  whitened  floor 
No  carpet  lay,  but  in  its  stead 

A  home-made  rug  or  more. 

58 


Across  the  lane,  upon  a  hill 

Tall  poplars  pierced  the  sky; 
And  purple  lilacs  grew  between 

Green  plats  and  fir-trees  high. 
And,  just  below,  a  dark  cave  slipped 

'Neath  rocks  where  waters  lie. 

A  cherry-tree  with  vines  o'erlaced, 

Gave  shelter  from  the  sun 
To  garden  walk  that  met  the  spring 

Where  coolest  waters  run, 
Behind  the  pear-trees,  through  the  lot 

Where  clover  leaves  are  spun. 

And  here  within  this  happy  world 

A  child  was  used  to  roam: 
He  played  with  flowers  beneath  the  trees 

That  touched  the  azure  dome. 
He  loved  the  field  of  clover  bloom 

Where  wild  bees  built  their  home. 

He  watched  the  fireflies  in  the  field, 

The  bright  stars  overhead. 
He  questioned  all  the  flowers  if  they 

Had  guessed  why  some  were  red  ? 
He  guessed  that  some  were  red  with  blood, 

That  human  hearts  had  shed. 

Now  things  no  longer  are  the  same. 
The  stolid  house  lies  low; 

59 


Its  very  ashes  ceased  to  be 
Since  tall  weeds  came  to  grow. 

And  all  around  the  precious  ground 
Are  things  he  does  not  know. 

He  does  not  know  the  little  bowers 
That  housed  his  dreams  by  day; 

He  sees  no  fairies  in  the  leaves 
Where  fairies  were  alway. 

He  only  sees  a  wretched  place 

Where  mean  things  crawl  and  stay. 

All  friendliness  has  left  the  things 

That  grow  there  or  decay, 
And  everywhere  a  menace  prowls 

Where  once  were  nymphs  of  day. 
Now  only  dole  is  in  his  soul 

That  once  knew  how  to  pray. 

And  wherefore  all  this  change,  I  trow, 

No  mortal  yet  has  told: 
It  seems  to  come  with  passing  years, 

And  bitterness  of  gold, — 
The  dregs  of  years  and  stains  of  tears 

That  make  the  heart  grow  cold. 

O  Lord,  we  know  how  sad  it  is 
That  these  sad  things  should  be 

On  either  side  as  waters  glide 
Forever  toward  the  sea; 

When  stars,  alas!  are  broken  glass 
Of  shattered  memory. 

60 


DOUBT 

I  walk  amid  the  maze  of  life, 

At  home  and  yet  alone. 
The  tooth  of  hate,  the  god  of  strife, 

The  human  hearts  of  stone, 
And  all  the  terrors  teeming  round 
Make  me  distrust  the  solid  ground. 

The  piles  that  human  corals  build, 

And  dens  the  spiders  weave; 
The  dirty  streets  with  hunger  filled, 

And  hearts  that  beat  to  grieve; 
And  all  the  waste  of  blood  and  tears, — 
Besiege  and  fill  my  soul  with  fears. 

I  walk  the  dusty  ways  of  trade, 
And  breathe  the  breath  of  gain, 

And  see  life's  roses  pale  and  fade 
Beneath  a  needless  pain, 

Until  my  very  soul  derides 

The  faith  that  love  on  earth  abides. 

I  wonder  why  the  martyrs  died, 

And  why  the  heroes  bled; 
How  any  grave  scarce  three  feet  wide 

Can  hold  some  pompous  dead; 
And  why  a  church  proclaims  its  creed 
As  clutching  tradesmen  voice  their  greed  ? 


61 


GOD 

There  is  no  little  thing  in  all  this  world 

Forgot  by  thee,  O  Soul  supreme  and  sweet. 
Thy  mercy  shows  itself  when  storms  have  hurled 

Their  fury  at  the  stars  beneath  thy  feet. 

I  read  the  sign,  and  know; 
For  little  flowers  burst  in  fragrant  love 

And  smile  upon  the  air  which  vengeance  rode 
In  thundering  car  drawn  by  the  steeds  of  Jove 

When  gloomy  Titans  stormed  the  gods'  abode 
One  little  hour  ago. 


LIFE 

The  years  are  a  song 

Of  laughs  and  cries; 
And  love  is  a  long, 

Sweet,  tireless  flight, 
Of  dear  unrest 

On  a  breath  of  sighs, 
With  dreams  at  best 

On  the  shores  of  night. 


ALONE 

Our  days  were  long  as  love,  and  happy  seemed 
All  voices  of  the  earth  and  sky  and  sea. 
We  knew  no  joy  save  what  the  other  dreamed 
Was  good;  and  every  wind  that  wandered  free 

62 


A  message  lent  of  sweet-mouthed  minstrelsy. 
We  sat  beneath  our  vine  when  mid-day  beamed 
The  sun,  and  yet,  when  fell  the  night's  decree, 
We  lingered  while  the  starlight  on  us  streamed. 
Then  came  the  time  when  I  must  sit  alone, 
In  depths  far  deeper  than  the  circling  sun 
Has  measured  through  the  years  that  he  hath  flown. 
And  since  that  time  the  shadows  one  by  one 
Athwart  my  lonely  life  have  deeper  grown, 
Enfolding  me  where  hope  is  dead  and  done. 


THE   SPIRIT  OF   DEMOCRACY 

Between  earth's  darkling  womb  and  quiet  moon 

No  little  straying  thing  is  mean  or  small; 

The  least  of  these  shall  yet  upreach  to  all, 

And  all  shall  bow  to  littleness  full  soon. 

The  rough  old  parent  rocks  are  earth's  sweet  boon. 

The  voiceless  trees  have  tongues  with  which  to  call; 

And  playful  threads  of  moss-fringed  waterfall 

Have  somehow  found  the  fragment  of  a  tune. 

I  look  on  men, — their  souls  are  fair  to  me, — 

And,  though  their  lives  in  tangled  courses  run, 

I  love  the  very  knots  of  life,  and  see 

Of  loop  and  kink  a  flower  deftly  spun. 

In  tear-born  streams  that  seek  the  levelling  sea, 

I  solve  the  sweetest  problem  of  the  sun. 


63 


THE  MIDDLE  AGES 

Oh,  the  gloating  in  the  gloaming  and  the  never-ending 
pain; 

And  the  whispers  in  the  darkness,  and  the  voices 
in  the  day — 

And  the  vulture  birds  of  midnight;  and  the  plashing 
tears  of  rain; 

And  the  moans  of  children  dying,  and  the  demon- 
men  at  play! 

Oh,  the  hopelessness  of  watching,  when  the  soul  of 

hope  is  strong, 
In  the  prison-house  of  waiting,  which  is  worse  than 

dumb  despair; 
For  the  demon-claw  is  tearing,  while  the  mocking 

laugh  of  Wrong 
Through  the  outer  world  of  murder   fills   the    inner 

heart  with  care. 

Oh,  the  gnashing  and  the  clashing  of  the  fangs  of 

horrid  Hate! 
And  the  poison  in  the  playing  and  the  preying  greed 

of  gain; 
And  the  hungry  babes  at  twilight,  and  the  coffin  at 

the  gate, 
And  the  lighted  halls   of    laughter    near    benighted 

dens  of  pain! 

Oh,  the  loving  of  the  martyrs  who  had  souls  of  spot 
less  white! 

64 


Oh,  the   labors   of  the  loving  who  were  toilers   grim 

and  brave! 
They  have  sown  the  seed  at  seed-time  in  the  darkling 

fields  of  night; 
And  their  tear-wet,  weary  sowing  blossoms  now  above 

their  grave. 


WAR 

The  Pestilence  of  Tears 
In  the  graveyard  of  the  nations,  in  the  trenches  of  the 

slain, 
In  the  lurid  smoke  of  battle,  in  the  steel  and  leaden 

rain, 
In  the   blood   of  butchered   heroes   and  in  needless 

moans  and  tears, 
Live  the  ghosts  of  cruel  ages  and  the  pestilence  of 

years. 

What  is  all  this  grim  disorder,  all  this  savagery  of  men 
With  their  mighty,  murderous  engines  belching  fire 

and  hell  again  ? 
But  the  madness  of  the  rulers,  and  the  selfish  greed  of 

gain, 
And  of  craven  monsters  feeding  on  the  bleeding  hearts 

of  pain. 

Oh,  the  children  born  of  women,  with  their  tender 
ness  and  tears, 

65 


Must  they  turn  to  beasts  of  murder  at  the  putting  on 

of  years  ? 

Or  is  madness  of  the  rulers,  and  the  lust  of  cruel  gain, 
But  the  demon-ghosts  that  wander  where  the  trenches 

scar  the  plain  ? 

What  means  all  this  waste  of  treasure,  all  the  seas  of 

blood  and    tears, 
Spendthrift  children  spill  through  ages  in  the  seething 

tide  of  years  ? 
Is  it  to  assuage  some  monster,  drunk  with  blood  of 

babes  and  men, 
Reeling  through  the  halls   of  pleasure,   laughs   and 

then  must  drink  again  ? 

O  ye  babes    of  winsome  women,  nursed   too  kindly 

at  the  breast, 
Would  ye  turn  the  fangs  of  hatred  on  your  brothers, 

like  caressed  ? 
Have  ye  had  no  dreams  of  mercy,  have  ye  known  no 

pity's  tears  ? 
Will  ye  never  heed  Love's  teaching  through  the  red 

and  crazy  years  ? 

A  CRY  OF  THE  SOUL 

(With  Compliments  to  the  greatest  living  Poet) 
O  Love,  with  thy  infinite  sorrows; 

O  Life,  so  tenacious  and  strong; 
O  yesterday's  warp  in  to-morrow's 

Red  woof  of  the  blossoming  song; 

66 


O  yesterday's  warp  in  to-morrow's 
Gray  woof  of  the  ultimate  wail, — 

O  Love,  with  thy  infinite  sorrows, 
And  Life's  one  monotonous  tale. 

We  drink  from  thy  cup,  which  is  golden, 

The  draught  of  the  vintage  of  years, 
Unholy  as  sins  that  are  olden, 

More  bitter  than  bittermost  tears, — 
The  love  that  is  fettered  with  longings, 

With  longings  it  fain  would  conceal, 
Denials  that  wrest  the  belongings 

From  hands  in  perpetual  appeal. 

Thy  bruises  that  mangle,  the  bleeding 

Red  lips  of  the  wounds  that  are  torn, 
Reopened  again  with  mute  pleading 

And  answered  with  insolent  scorn. 
We  turn  to  the  infinite  changes, 

From  altars  where  vainly  we  sued, 
While  pallid  unrest  re-arranges 

The  fragments  of  life's  plenitude. 

We  marry,  and  turn  to  discover 

On  lips  and  in  eyes  new  delight. 
The  woman  may  reach  for  her  lover 

Fair  arms  that  embrace  only  night. 
Impossible  kisses  redouble 

Desire  bursting  out  into  flame 
From  bondage  that  yokes  us  to  trouble 

And  trouble  that  ties  us  to  shame. 

67 


O  hunger  that  feeds  on  emotion, 

O  seas  of  unbearable  things, 
O  endless  and  changing  devotion, 

That  shrinks  from  the  arrows  and  stings 
Of  monsters,  mismated  immortals, 

Whose  eyelids  grin  jealous,  green  fire, — 
Like  unto  bane  serpents  through  portals 

Of  hell  when  its  heart  is  desire! 

O  Love,  have  you  crowns  of  dear  roses  ? 

O  Life,  be  there  other  than  pain  ? 
O  Death,  is  thy  dream  what  encloses 

From  harm  the  quick  soul  of  the  slain  ? 
Is  Sorrow  the  twin  that  embraces, 

With  kisses,  her  sister  Delight  ? 
Does  blood  that  is  broken  leave  traces 

Like  tears  on  the  face  in  the  night  ? 

We  ask,  and  the  answer  is  only 

An  echo  that  mocks  our  despair. 
We  stumble  through  days  that  are  lonely, 

Face  nights  that  seem  come  to  ensnare 
Our  souls  for  the  wanton,  fierce  pleasure, 

Of  torture  and  fiendish  delight. 
O  Life,  does  thy  cruelty  measure 

The  blackness  of  ultimate  night  ? 


68 


THE   ABSOLUTE 

Faces  fade  and  ears  forget, 
Voices  lose  the  soul  of  song, 

Memory  strays  while  even  yet 
Echoes  linger  sweet  and  long. 

Fading,  winding  out  of  sight 

Through  the  changing  scenes  of  day, 
Dear  warm  spirits  of  delight 

Colder,  dimmer  grow  alway. 

Pearls  of  pleasure,  rubies  red, 

Trinkets  of  an  idle  hour, 
Coronal  for  regal  head, 

Soon  are  spent  as  blush  of  flower. 

Love  alone,  a  changeless  star, 
Braves  the  fickle  mortal  years; 

Beams  in  fadeless  glory,  far 

Down  the  world  adrift  in  tears. 


FALSE   FAME 

Up  from  the  portals  of  the  Night  he  came; 
Down  from  the  brow  of  Dawn  to  heart  of  Noon. 
His  footsteps  sped  where  flowers,  half  a-swoon, 
Bent  low  before  his  eager  flight  for  Fame: 
Fleet-foot  his  race  despoiled  their  souls'  acclaim. 
Now  golden-girdled  Day  doth  envy  Moon 
Of  midnight,  and  the  tawny  twilight's  boon; 

69 


Yet  frowning  Fame  hath  blotted  out  his  name. 
Thus  Fame  was  false;  and  cruel  all  the  ways 
The  great  brute  world  in  sordid  pomp  has  trod. 
The  soul  is  lost  that  wastes  the  freer  days 
Of  woodsong,  mirth,  and   stream-kissed  flowers  and 

sod, — 

The  courted  world  a  courtesan  that  slays 
The  children  of  the  brain,  beloved  of  God. 


ON   SLIDING  GROUND 

We  linger  over  old  wine, 

We  tarry  where  our  pleasure  tempts. 
With  ruthless  hand  we  tear  the  vine 

That  feeds  us,  in  our  large  attempts 
To  reach  beyond  the  dead  plane 

That,  desert-wise,  afar  and  'round 
Drinks  up  our  strength.     In  vain,  in  vain! 

Our  feet  are  set  on  sliding  ground. 

Oh,  chide  us  not!   we  all  must  fall 
Sometime,  somewhere.     Forgive  us  all! 

We  tease  and  coax  the  tame  laugh, 
We  try  to  piece-out  pleasure  spent. 

With  deathless  thirst  we  quaff  and  quaff, 
And  feed  our  want  on  discontent. 

And  so,  beyond  and  yet  near, 

Almost  in  reach,  just  out  of  grasp, 

70 


We  vaguely  clutch  through  cheer  and  fear 
At  dim  desire  with  empty  clasp. 

0  mortal  brother,  chide  us  not! 

For  Fate  was  blind  when  God  forgot. 

MY  SOUL  AWAKES 

My  soul  awakes, — my  soul  that  slept 

Until  thy  trembling  pulse  was  mine, — 

Soft  slumbers  slowly  disentwine 
My  spirit.     Dear,  my  soul  has  wept, 

A-dreaming,  misty  tears  that  wet 
The  lashes  merely.     Now  to  thine 

My  lips  put  forth,  nor  fain  forget, 
Thy  kisses  are  my  bread  and  wine. 

1  hear  the  roaring  traffic  swell 

Along  the  ridge  and  through  the  glen, 

And  all  the  mighty  hum  of  men, 
As  noble  bees'  where  flowers  dwell. 

My  being  thrills!    my  soul  awakes! 
The  harp  of  love  is  taut  in  tune; 

And  all  my  spirit's  passion  takes 
Its  music  from  the  pulse  of  June. 

For  I  have  seen  your  wondrous  eyes, 

Like  woodland  pools  dark-fringed  with  fern, 
And  felt  their  earnest  glances  burn 

Like  mid-day  suns  from  tropic  skies. 
Thy  whispers  woo  my  soul  from  me; 

71 


And  all  my  being's  tide  doth  flow 

Where  necklaced  arms  enfold  unfree, 
Two  waking  spirits  white  as  snow. 


THE  WEST  WIND 

O  mild,  mild  West  Wind  that  hails  the  even-tide! 
Have  you  no  whispers  from  my  love,  no  hope  for  hope 

denied  ? 
Whence  grasses   bend  to   softest  breath,   and   linger 

dew-spilled  tears, 
Brought  you  no  whispers  from  her  rest,  no  smile  to 

woo  my  years  ? 

0  wild,  wild  West  Wind,  go  screaming  through  the 

sky! 

1  hear    your    mocking    clamor-voice,    your    demon- 

throated  cry. 
Across  the  night's  uncertain  face  streams  inky  black 

your  hair. 
Ah,  God!  that  such  as  this  could  be!  my  love — she 

was  so  fair! 


THE  SOUL'S  HARKBACK 

Now,  from  the  vantage  of  man's  high  estate, 
I  long  to  turn  again  to  humbler  things, — 

The  vintage  of  the  morn  in  bowers,  where  sate 
Freeborn  all  joys  of  soul  the  body  sings, — 

Turn  back  again  to  where  the  perfumed  leaf 

72 


Falls  from  the  swaying  censers  of  the  field, 
And  breath  of  dawn  rings  flower-bells'  relief 
From  human  hurts  no  scars  have  healed. 

In  dreams  I  turn  and  tarry  long  and  long: 

The  purring  tiger-mother  kittened  lies, 
And  seems  so  like  embodiment  of  song 

I  lose  all  fear  in  spell  of  her  fierce  eyes. 
Within  her  lair  the  dear  first-virtues  spring 

That,  winged  with  poesy,  enrich  and  robe 
Each  happy  pair,  and  tell  the  soul  to  sing 

And  love-engarland  all  the  globe. 

I  turn  from  men,  from  weariness  and  wrong, 

From  cankering  care  and  pride  and  prickly  fret, 
And  fain  embrace  again  the  woodland  song, 

And  thus  drowse  back  a  step,  and  so  forget, — 
Forget  that  ever  slave  was  born  or  bred, 

That  ever  man  by  man  was  ridden  down, 
Aye,  e'en  forget  the  unforgotten  dead 

If  babes  could  know  no  tear  nor  frown. 

Perhaps  the  soul  may  turn  upon  high  crest 

And  beat  an  ebb-tide  dream  through  ways  of  past; 
Perchance  the  goal  lies  hidden  in  the  breast 

Of  some  dim  day;  and  heart  find  hope  at  last 
By  turning  back  to  ancient  dawn,  when  first 

The  budding  fancy  felt  the  dear,  warm  breath 
Of  waking  love,  ere  creed  and  crime  had  curst 

The  sons  of  men  with  hate  and  death. 

73 


A  VISION  OF  LIFE 

Mine  eyes  were  glad  to  look  upon  my  love. 

To  touch  her  cheek  enkindled  flames  in  mine, — 

Sweet  red  flames  above 

All  thought,  save  when  lovers'  arms  entwine 

In  dreamy  gardens  where  winds  whisper  low, 

Making  soft    hours   'mong    glad    green    leaves    and 

bloom 

Of  subtle  colorings,  and  flow 
Of  waters  tuned  with  evening's  earliest  gloom. 

My  heart  leapt  joyously  to  kiss  the  cup 

That  was  her  bosom,  carved  for  this  sweet  grace, 

This  inimitable  sup. 

Adown,  her  spilling  beauty,  pure  as  her  face, 

Carried  my  being  with  it  rapturously, 

As  slipping  sea-waves  slide  upon  the  sands. 

All  this  and  more  was  she  to  me, 

For  she  held  a  world  of  beauty  in  her  two  hands. 

My  soul's  deep  consciousness  was  eddying  dreams 

That  lived  in  the  rare  beauty  of  her  eyes, 

Now  sharp  as  eagle-screams, 

Now  soft  as  moonlight  is  just  when  it  dies 

In  the  heart  of  a  red  rose  some  scant  hours  blown, — 

Eyes  of  such  quiet  laughter  as  one  sees 

In  summer  meadows,  color  sown, 

Where  lurks  ungathered  honey  for  hungry  bees. 

And  my  Desire  grew  strong  upon  her  lips, 
Feeding  on  kisses,  breathing  fragrant  sighs, — 

74 


In  her  glad  mouth's  ellipse 

Finding  joyousness;  nor  any  wise 

Did  my  desire  grow  less,  where  flowers  spread 

For  kisses  moist,  and  smiling  pink  leaves  cleft 

Asunder  when  a  red  heart  bled 

For  joy  at  the  young  god's  accustomed  theft. 

I  saw  her  blood's  increase  like  ears  of  corn, — 

Strange  fruitage  torn  when  ripe  from  'neath  her  heart. 

How  good  God  was  that  morn! 

And  all  the  ways  of  life  too  sweet  to  part 

With  fruit  or  flower,  or  glint  of  sun  on  leaf. 

Not  time,  but  thoughts  outflowing  counted  years. 

And  then  gray  phantoms  of  old  grief 

Stood  out  against  the  sky  aflood  with  tears. 


THE  NEGRO 

You  are  weary,  O  Brother,  my  Brother! 

You  are  tired  of  your  burdens,  I  know; 
While  the  high  human  hopes  you  must  smother, 

Are  phantoms  that  go  where  you  go. 

You  have  worn  your  chains  like  the  sainted; 

You  were  patient  with  thankless  toil, 
And  your  brave  heart  never  once  fainted 

'Neath  the  lash  as  you  bent  to  the  soil. 

You  have  suffered  red  sins  that  are  nameless, 
With  the  meekness  of  Christ  on  your  face; 

75 


You  have  fed  your  indolent,  shameless, 
White  master  with  the  blood  of  your  race. 

You  have  given, — you  are  giving  unceasing, — 
You  are  giving  what  the  good  God  keeps. 

And  the  gifts  of  your  toil  are  increasing 
The  white  man's  store  while  he  sleeps. 

You  work  in  the  dear  world's  gardens, 

You  grind  in  its  dusty  mills; 
And  your  wage  is  the  coin  that  hardens 

The  heart, — starves  it  and  kills. 

Though  the  chains  that  were  cruel  are  broken, 

Yet  thy  spirit  in  bondage  dwells 
Apart  from  the  world  and  unspoken, 

Where  the  tide  of  its  glory  swells — 

Aye,  dwells  apart  and  unspoken 

And  mercilessly  thrust  aside! 
It  is  bowed,  by  God!  but  unbroken, 

For  thy  soul,  it  shall  not  be  denied! 


UNITED 

I  dream  my  dreams  at  scarlet-time 
Of  love's  lone  hour;  my  flag  of  soul 

Is  free  upon  the  breath  of  rime, 
As  flesh  is  fond  of  uncontrol. 

A  pinch  of  snuflF,  a  puff  of  smoke 

That  kissed  the  fresh,  unravished  bowl 

76 


Of  meerschaum  pipe!    my  soul  awoke 
To  its  own  beauty,  brave  and  whole. 

A  conscious  breath,  a  thrill  of  speed 
And  power!  my  flesh  awoke,  and  won 

Companionship  to  sup  with  need, — 
And  then  my  flesh  and  soul  were  one. 


DREAMS 

From  what  dim  corners  of  the  brain  they  come 
I  know  not.     Dreams  are  folk  that  ask  not  leave 
Of  you  or  me.     Unwelcome  guests  are  some; 
And  others,  dear  delights  that  spin  and  weave 
The  fabric  hope,  and  play  at  love  and  sling 
Bright  arrows  through  a  trembling  mark  that  bleeds, 
Then  flit  away  from  lonesome  arms  that  cling 
To  clay  and  crumbling  ashes.     Life  thus  leads 
A  never-ending  chase  with  dream-desire, 
Until  they  both  are  lost  'mid  stars  of  fire. 

And  yet  maybe  the  dream-folk  live  and  dream 
Their  own  delights,  and  feed  some  frowning  guests 
From  sore  unwilling  hearts,  and  smile  and  seem 
To  drink  the  wine  of  joy  from  dark  behests. 
And  still  beyond,  where  fancy's  faintest  cloud 
Scarce  dims  the  azure  dome  of  dreams,  the  bird 
Of  song  may  brood  her  dream-eggs,  love  endowed 
With  fairy  notes  that  happy  flowers  heard 
Of  beauty's  many  echoes  down  the  breeze, 
A-dance  where  blossoms  foam  the  green  of  trees. 

77 


YESTERDAY 

The  skies  are  blue;  the  ruddy  South, 
So  loath  of  change,  seems  not  to  care 

If  Autumn  waits  and  Winter's  mouth 

Whispers  white  love  where  limbs  are  bare. 

Here  in  the  lazy  breathing-spell, 

The  aftermath  of  passion's  heat, 
She  listens  as  the  red  leaves  tell 

Of  the  Year's  spent  love,  so  honey-sweet. 

She  dreams  again  of  his  sweet  hot  breath; 

Her  scarlet  cheek  alone  betrays 
Her  clinging  dream  through  change  and  death, 

While  dim  eyes  fade  in  the  purple  haze. 

O  matron  South,  with  maiden  dreams, 
Sing  yet  thy  love's  long  roundelay, 

Like  mine,  a  song  that  faintly  seems 
The  soul  of  a  sacred  yesterday! 


DEAD-SEA  FRUIT 

He  told  Love's  red-bead  rosary  many  times 

In  many  lands;   and  Love  had  answered  all 

The  prayers  his  mad  desire  had  made.     His  heart 

Was  not  the  sanctuary  hearts  should  be 

When  souls  seek  prayer.     His  became  still  less 

The  harbor-house  of  sacredness.     It  came 

To  pass,  that  as  the  castle  of  his  breast 

Fell  more  and  more  to  waste  and  ruinness, 

78 


The  garden  of  his  speech  grew  richer  in 
Sweet  buds  prophetic  of  the  soul's  dear  bloom. 
And  sickly  nature  placed  the  blush  of  whole 
And  hearty  joy  upon  his  hollow  flesh, — 
A  fit  and  seemly  lord  of  love  was  he. 

Poor  fire  flies  seek  the  stars  and  perish  in 

The  outer  seas  where  darkness  is,  and  cold 

Of  infinite  despair,  where  star-eyes  fade. 

Poor  moths  seek  flame  and  sacrifice  their  wings 

Of  joy  on  dazzling  altar-pyres.     What  wonder,  then, 

That  women  weep  and  drown  themselves  with  tears! 

In  careless  wantonness  he  held  his  arms 
Wide  open,  looked  desire  upon  a  dear 
And  untried  woman's  flesh.     She  gave  her  soul. 
He  took  both  flesh  and  soul  to  wife,  yet  could 
Not  be  a  husband  to  her  soul.     He  felt 
The  impotence  of  sentiment,  and  filled 
With  fleshly  dreams  her  need  of  matedness, 
And  hid  the  serpent,  lust,  beneath  the  leaves, — 
The  petalled  kisses  cold,  but  sweet, — and  said, 
"This  joy,  my  dear,  this  sacred  dream  is  love!" 

But,  like  all  love  that  is  not  love,  the  dream 
Must  die, — the  serpent  must  be  fed, — the  leaves 
All  fade,  and  garbage  lies  where  flowers  lived. 

One  day  in  early  autumn  when  the  gold 
Of  mellow  sunlight  kissed  most  dreamily 
Perfected  fruit,  she  decked  herself  with  best 

79 


Of  all  her  jewels,  put  a  rose  within 

Her  gloomy  hair,  kissed  him,  and  said,  "Good-bye, 

For  I  may  not  be  back  to  luncheon,  love." 

He  muttered:  "So  be  it!     I  care  not  when 

She  comes!"     And  yet  he  watched  her  fade  away 

Far  down  the  street,  and  thought,  "How  fair  she  is, 

How  graceful  all  her  lines,  how  liltingly 

She  trips  the  street  where  vulgar  feet  have  soiled 

The  very  stones  she  treads  upon!"     He  turned 

Upon  his  world  of  books  and  soulless  art, 

And  then  forgot — forgot  the  blood  and  soul — 

The  rare  divinity  he'd  sworn  to  love. 

A  preacher  once  in  brutal  fury  spake: 

"The  clock  of  time  hangs  on  the  walls  of  Hell 

And  ticks,  too  late,  too  late,  too  late,  too  late!" 

With  wild,  dishevelled  hair  and  hot  eyes  fixed, 

A  mother  wailing  by  a  river-brim 

Shrieked  out  her  loss : "  Too  late !  my  babe  is  drowned !" 

A  mother-bird  sat  brooding  where  her  love 
In  songful  joy  had  builded  downily. 
The  leaves  all  trembled  with  her  thrill  of  woe 
For  her  half-orphaned  young. 

A  mangled  corpse  was  brought 
To  one  who  knew  but  dreams  of  coldest  art, 
Who  nursed  a  serpent  colder  still  that  fed 
On  flesh,  and  charmed  away  the  soul, — grew  fat 
On  dead  love  uninterred.     Then  love  awoke, 

80 


And  holy  dreams  bemoaned  its  loss.     He  knew 
Too  late  the  sacred  worth  of  woman's  love. 

Speak  not,  O  learned  philosopher,  again 
Of  Nature's  trust  and  kindliness!     She  sows 
The  seeds  with  cruel  hand  and  strikes  the  buds 
To  earth,  and  laughs  to  scorn  the  wounded  rights 
Denied  of  fruit  by  her  all-giving  hands. 


DE   PO'   LIT'  CHIL'UN 

De  Win'  dey  is  blowin'  mighty  col', 

En  de  po'  HT  chil'un  is  shiverin'  in  bed; 

De  las'  pone  er  bread  done  eat  up  whol', 
En  de  chil'un's  mammy  is  col'  en  dead. 

En  de  po'  HT  chil'un  des  cry  en  cry, 

But  I  tells  'em  fer  to  hush,  er  I  whup  'em,  sho! 
Den  dey  axes  fer  dey  mammy,  by  en  by, 

But  she  ain't  ercomin'  home  no  mo',  no  mo'. 

Oh,  she's  done  gone  erway,  I  say,  I  say, 
She's  done  laid  erway  in  de  groun'; 

En  de  Win'  he  growl  en  snarl  en  say, 
"Doan  yuh  heah  dat  mo'nful  soun'?" 

Mister  Win',  yo's  pow'ful  bad,  I  say, 
Toe  de  po'  liT  chil'un  in  de  trundle-bed, 

W'en  dey  mammy's  done  gone  so  fur  erway, 
En  dey  po'  ol'  daddy  cain't  git  no  bread. 

81 


En  de  Win'  des  puff  en  blow  en  blow, 

Lack  de  black  ol'  Satan  projectin'  eroun'; 

En  de  po'  li'l'  chil'un  is  freezin',  sho! 

En  dey  mammy  gone  ersleep  in  de  hard  col'  groun'. 

Oh,  she's  done  gone  ervvay,  I  say,  I  say, 

She's  done  laid  ervvay  in  de  groun'; 
En  de  Win*  he  growl  en  snarl  en  say, 

"Doan  yuh  heah  dat  mo'nful  soun'?" 

But  the  wind  went  down  at  the  break  of  day, 
And  the  snow  at  dawn  lay  deep  and  white; 

And  the  dead  babes  there  with  their  father  lay 
In  the  keep  and  dreams  of  the  night. 


LEAVIN'  GEORGY 

I'm  a-leavin'  of  ol'  Georgy, 

Whar  the  climbin'  muscadine 
'Pears  to  have  its  arms  aroun'  me 

Like  an  ol'  sweetheart  o'  mine. 
An'  the  ol'  train  keeps  a-pullin', 

While  my  heart  is  holdin'  fast 
To  the  dearest  of  all  livin'  things 

That  life  has  yanked  me  past. 

I'm  a-leavin'  of  ol'  Georgy, 

Whar  the  tend'rest  green  things  grow, 
Coddlin'  like  an'  climbin'  clostest 

To  the  warm  red  hills  I  know. 

82 


An'  the  ol'  train  keeps  a-jerkin', 
An'  my  heart  keeps  yankin'  back 

Till  it  seems  my  soul  is  spillin' 
Of  its  life-blood  down  the  track. 

I'm  a-leavin'  of  ol'  Georgy, 

Whar  the  mockin'-birds  an'  trees 
Is  the  truest  frien's  of  fellers 

That  a  feller  ever  sees; 
Whar  the  spears  er  grass  is  lovin' 

An'  the  blushin'  roses  flirt 
With  the  meek  an'  droopin'  lilies 

That  have  flounced  the  marshes'  skirt. 

I'm  a-leavin'  of  ol'  Georgy, 

An'  I  hate  it  awful  bad, 
Fer  my  dead  dreams  thar  is  sleepin' 

In  the'r  home  that's  still  an'  sad, — 
In  the  little  cabin  peepin' 

Through  the  trees  an'  muscadines 
Whar  the  breezes  sigh  so  lonesome 

When  the  stars  of  midnight  shines. 

I'm  a-leavin'  of  ol'  Georgy, 

But  I  hain't  got  fur  to  go 
Fer  to  find  that  I'm  a-leavin' 

Of  the  dearest  things  I  know. 
Yet  the  ol'  train  keeps  a-jerkin', 

An'  my  heart  keeps  yankin'  back 
Till  between  them  they're  a-spillin' 

Of  my  life-blood  down  the  track. 

83 


COIN'  BACK  TO  GEORGY 

I'm  a-goin'  back  to  Georgy, 

Whar  the  sweet  pertaters  grow, 
An'  the  mockin'-birds  is  singin' 

To  the  dear  warm  hills  I  know, 
Whar  the  melons  stretch  the'r  bellies 

With  the  sweet  juice  of  the  dew, 
An'  the  grape-vines'  clustered  laughter 

Fill  an'  thrill  me  through  an'  through. 

I'm  a-goin'  back  to  Georgy, 

Fer  to  see  that  gal  o'  mine, 
An'  to  bathe  me  in  the  sunshine, 

An'  to  pick  the  muscadine, 
An'  to  spen'  the  year  a-singin' 

An'  a-lovin'  of  my  dear, 
Whar  the  berries  burst  a-drippin' 

Of  a  juicy  kind  o'  cheer. 

I'm  a-goin'  back  to  Georgy, 

Fer  I've  seen  my  frien's  at  Cleves 
(Oh,  the  nearest  an'  the  dearest 

That  a  feller  ever  leaves!) 
An'  my  ol'  heart  chugs  my  win'-pipe 

An'  my  eyes  is  swimmin'  tears, 
While  I  clutch  the  hope  to  kiss  'em 

Once  ag'in  in  smilin'  years. 

I'm  a-goin'  back  to  Georgy, 
An'  my  ol'  heart  aches  anew, 

84 


Fer  I'm  leavin'  of  the  Coopers, 

An'  I  love  'em  so — I  do — 
That  it  seems  my  soul  is  splittin' 

As  the  ol'  train  pulls  away, 
An'  my  tremblin'  hope  is  yearnin' 

Fer  the'r  kiss  ag'in — some  day! 

I'm  a-goin'  back  to  Georgy, 

An'  you'd  reckon  by  my  tears 
I'm  a  weaklin'-like  an'  foolish 

In  regards  to  dreads  an'  fears; 
But  I've  seen  so  much  of  partin', 

An'  I've  knowed  so  much  of  tears, 
That  I  can't  help  of  my  feelin's 

Of  the  heartlessness  of  years. 

THE  CROSS 

Far  down  through  mists  of  time  and  on  the  tide 
That  never  turns,  a  spar  with  spikes  of  pain 
Is  kissed  by  billowed  years  and  borne  along. 
The  stains  of  tears  are  on  it,  virgins'  blood 
And  much  unholy  crime  which  never  wave 
With  ceaseless  kiss  nor  floods  may  wash  away. 

The  cross,  a  strangely  simple  image,  tells 
Of  love  and  lust.     It  points,  as  God  might  with 
His  finger  on  the  deeds  of  flesh  and  soul, 
To  meanings  rich  with  purple,  red  with  pain 
Of  many  Christs.     It  was  the  first  uplift 
That  told  the  mystic  tale,  now  old  as  love. 

85 


WHEN  DAY   DROOPS 

The  big  red  sun  is  setting, 
The  purple  mist  hangs  low, — 

The  time  of  sweet  forgetting, 
For  love  will  have  it  so. 

Whate'er  the  day  was  dreaming, 

Whate'er  is  left  undone, 
Fades  now  as  fancy's  seeming, 

And  sinks  with  set  of  sun. 

The  gray  now  drooping  lowly 
Along  the  far  land's  edge 

Enshrouds  the  world  as  slowly 
As  mists  enfold  the  hedge. 

The  brooding  twilight  falling 

Calls  home  the  dreams  we  know,- 

Of  joys  past  all  recalling, 
Since  sunset  wills  it  so. 


THE  TRULY  FREE 

The  truly  free  are  those  unknown  to  fame, — 
The  careless  souls  who  walk  the  ways  of  light, 
Thrice  blessed  with  hope  that  hails  the  clearer  sight,- 
Content  without  the  happy  hosts'  acclaim, — 
The  modest  minstrels  of  the  world  who  came 
Unbidden  guests,  to  woo  and  win  delight 
From  simpler  ways  between  the  shores  of  night. 

86 


Nor  thought  to  write  on  shifting  sands — a  name. 
And  so  I  open  wide  my  arms  to  those 

Dear  smiling  wights  of  earth,  who  clearly  see 
In  beauty's  being  cause  that  blooms  the  rose, — 

Embodied  souls  of  song  through  ways  that  be 
All-wise,  because  so  meek  that  no  man  knows 

Their  holy  tears,  nor  yet  how  truly  free. 


LOVE'S  LARGESS 

From  out  fair  moments  of  suppressed  delight, 
When  joys,  unburdened  by  a  doubt,  proclaim 
A  newer  waking,  comes  a  whispered  name 
As  soft  as  even-shades  subdued  with  light. 
Beyond  the  clasp  of  touch  or  kiss  of  sight 
Anon  a  dear  face,  mated  with  the  name, 
Consoles  the  spirit  as  a  smile  of  fame 
Broke  in  upon  some  dateless  waste  of  night. 
So  from  a  love  supremely  full  there  be 
Great  largess, — subtle  gifts  of  hope  that  are 
More  sacred  than  mere  hollow  fantasy, 
Too  sane  to  be  mirages  dim  and  fair; 
And  it  were  sweet  of  soul,  it  seems  to  me, 
To  hold  them  true  and  fixed  as  any  star. 


87 


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